


Employee(s) of the (6) Millennia

by RyuuSiren7



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam Young Still Has Powers (Good Omens), Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Angelfish (Good Omens), Attempt at Humor, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Dagon, Beelzebub is So Done (Good Omens), But Good at Being an Employee, Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Eric as Legion, F/F, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Administrators (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Maggot Husbands (Good Omens), Mostly Fluff, No beta we fall like Crowley, Nonbinary Beelzebub (Good Omens), Nonbinary Warlock Dowling, Other, archangels are forced to undergo a redemption arc via desperation, because we say so, demons love plants, everyone is incompetent, heaven and hell are incompetent, it's chaos, just cause i love them, little angst, matchmaking Heaven and Hell, michael x dagon is angelfish, of a sort, warlock dowling doesn't need them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23523844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyuuSiren7/pseuds/RyuuSiren7
Summary: Aka, absence makes the bureaucratic religious corporation grow fonder.Suddenly, Hell is realizing Crowley did a whole Hell of a lot more than they realized (literally) and Heaven is finding out the hard way that only relying on one field agent was perhaps not the best long term plan. Theoretically, Aziraphale should be easy enough to replace. It’s just that most of their angelic candidates haven't been on Earth since the 50 ADs and can't stop getting discorporated or fleeing back to Heaven within the first five minutes.As for Hell... well, they were a lost cause from the start.  They need their Field Agent back, before Beelzebub gives up and decides to go on a permanent vacation to Majorca.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Dagon (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens), Dagon & Michael (Good Omens), Dagon/Michael (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 355
Kudos: 659





	1. Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Challenge of the chapter: How many times and ways can I use Armageddon and Apocalypse name puns.
> 
> Warnings at the end of the chapter! Really very mild, though.

_"Mistakes were made."_

-Beelzebub, as soon as Crowley had finished sauntering out of Hell post failed execution

* * *

**Hell, 1 Year and 1 Day after The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives**

* * *

Beelzebub was in Hell. 

...Literally _and_ metaphorically, that is. Sometimes, this was a good - or, well, bad - statement. It meant that the Prince was on zir throne, everything was running smoothly - or Hellishly, as the case may be - and ze could take a nap while leaving the details to Dagon. 

This time, it was not a good statement. [i]

Ever since Armageddon Armagedidn’t, it had been one disaster after another. 

To begin with, the _traitor_ didn’t even have the _indecency_ to burn during his execution a la Holy Water, which really was a lenient punishment considering the demon had ruined six thousand years of work and in doing so also denied Beelzebub zir long-awaited vacation time. 

Even now, a year after the Apocafuckup, the twice damned traitor was still causing zir problems. Case in point, the chaos before zir now.

Beelzebub’s usually empty throne room was full of demons from varying departments and ranks, all of them milling around nervously and muttering among themselves.[ii] Before the Apocanot, being sent to the throne room was a near sure death sentence for those not Dukes or higher, and even them at times. If one was lucky, they’d just be discorporated. Better that than Hellfire to the face followed by eternal death.

However, there is eventually a limit of how many demons can be killed before it just becomes giving Heaven an unfair advantage. 

Every day. _Every. Damned. Day._ There was some new problem. And as time had passed, it had escalated. Once one piece of the system broke, the rest began to wear down faster and faster, a positive feedback loop created specifically to drive the last semblance of sanity out of Beelzebub. 

Satan was no help, as usual, sulking somewhere while recovering from being defeated by an 11-year-old quoting Vine at him. Which meant that all the problems had somehow become zirs to deal with, and had led to this insanity. Where once they had announced their Deeds of the Day, Hell now had an Airing of Grievances, which was a great deal more annoying and less entertaining. 

Beelzebub wasn’t quite certain how Crowley factored into this just yet, but ze was certain he was to blame.

Sighing, the Prince of the Flies waved zir hand at the crowd. There was no point stalling, ze knew. The increasing decay of Hell would just become worse the longer ze waited. 

The Airing of Grievances began.

A partnerless Duke was the first to step forward, which had become the norm by this point. Anyone who tried to go before him tended to end up flambeed in Hellfire. Except for Dagon, of course, but that’s because Dagon was Dagon. 

“My Lord, the ceiling is _still leaking!_ There are four new leaks this week alone, and none are fixed from the past year, damnit!”

Yes Hastur, ze knew. Beelzebub has heard him complain about it every week without fail, and has somehow only discorporated him thirty-eight times. One would assume that a frog demon wouldn’t mind a bit of damp and leak. One would be wrong.

Ze waved her hand, and a hulking brute of a demon nervously shuffled forward, horns nearly eye-level with Beelzebub from where ze sprawled across the throne. The demon adjusted his glasses anxiously and gulped before clearing his throat. Did someone send an _intern_ to meet with the _Prince_ of Hell? How cruel. Ze approved.

“S-Sorry for the intrusion, my, uh, terrible Lord! I’ve been sent to let you know that hallways 42, 56, 345, 678, and 999 have officially gone fully dark, along with conference rooms 322, 426, and the, uh, the entire Sloth department. Sir.”

Of course it was the fucking Sloth department. Probably hadn’t replaced any of their shit in decades before this. Beelzebub just sighed and slouched further in zir chair. Not like that department got anything done, anyway. Ze would just have Dagon audit them as punishment.[iii]

Over half of Hell was fully submerged in darkness at this point. The lighting had always been shitty, yes, but any fully dark corridors were usually fixed within a week. A month, at most. Nearly a full year, and nothing had been fixed or replaced yet. 

They were having to bring lamps and lighting in from Earth just for the diurnal demons to see and function. A scouting party had to go to Ikea. _Demons!_ In _Ikea_![iv]

Moving on, an Eric stepped forward, grinning nervously and giving a tiny wave.

An Eric was never a good sign.

Ze watched as the Legion corporation began to speak hesitantly. “Hey, uh, Your Disgrace. So, ya know the Hellhounds? Course you do. Well, uh, we have a problem. We’ve been cleaning out the stalls, yeah? Only problem is, we’ve ran out of room to put the… uh… waste, so to speak.”

Dogs were not fucking worth this.

“What do you mean you’ve ran out of room? Where hazzz it been going before?”

“Well you see, Your Darkness, usually we’d just bag it up and toss it in one of the unused closets and uh, it’d be gone by the time we returned. But uh. They’re not. Gone, that is. And now the closet is full. And so are all the other ones in that hall. My Lord.”

Beelzebub nodded in acknowledgment before blasting the Eric with Hellfire. The crowd around him surged backward, tripping over their feet while the murmuring and grumbling grew louder. Dagon sighed from their place in the corner and began filling out the form for Permanent Discorporation of a Legion, designation Eric, Version E56. 

A new Eric stepped up to stand before Beelzebub with a sheepish grin and bow before letting the crowd swallow him back up. The demon was always a good sport about it, and ze _needed_ to let off some anger before ze killed everyone in this room and then zirself.[v] An entirely new problem for them to deal with, just fucking _great_. 

The next to trudge forward was a sniffling group of demons, all of them looking on the verge of tears. Where once this would have been an immediate sign of weakness and disgrace, it had become a fairly normal occurrence. Especially for certain Dukes.

Beelzebub waited for them to speak, but none did. Instead, the leader of the pack walked forward, silently kneeling before zir and holding up her cupped hands. Held in them was a clump of soil and an extremely dead plant. 

The Prince of Hell sighed, covering zir face as ze held back the impending breakdown and explosion.

“Was that the last one, then?”

A hush fell over the crowd as they all leaned closer, trying to see the shriveled-up bit of brown and green clasped in the demon’s palms. 

“Yes, my Lord. All of the office plants are, officially, dead.”

Someone in the crowd burst out in a wail, and several others followed suit. No one quite knew where the office plants had come from, but they had been in Hell ever since the Garden of Eden fell. Some were even from the Garden itself, and none knew of them to exist anywhere except Hell. 

They had been the one bit of life and color to be found in Hell, which many demons needed far more than they claimed. The jungle wall, in particular, had been an excellent place to rest as a fly… 

Ze sighed, scraping the remains from the demon’s hands as she bowed and retreated to her group, head low in mourning. Beelzebub held the plant aloft for all to see before devouring it in Hellfire, not so much at blinking as the outbursts from the crowd grew louder.

“Anyone elzzze?”

No one stepped forward for several moments, either too discouraged from the scene before them or too afraid to follow after it. Eventually, Dagon shrugged and moved towards the throne, barely bothering to nod in respect as they scribbled away at their clipboard.

“Four of the filing cabinets have been misplaced, the shredder is broken, and the printer is jammed. And also out of ink. Even the Erics haven’t been able to find replacements yet.”

When Dagon, Lord of the Files, was having Problems, that was a sure sign that Hell has finished heading towards disaster and is already six feet under. 

Beelzebub nodded. Black eyes flicked over the crowd, but none spoke up. That was enough for today, then. Ze stood, brushing off zir suit before turning to their second in command. 

“Dagon, send out memos to all the departments. Whoever is responsible for these jobs _will_ be found, or each and every department will be audited.”

The crowd shuddered in fear as the Lord of Files smiled, a sight that could send a shark into cardiac arrest out of sheer terror. “You can start with the Sloth department.”

The intern fainted. Beelzebub didn’t react as several Erics popped up to drag him out, pretending not to see it. What a disgrace they’d become, in only a _year._ They shouldn’t even need this maintenance! Something had changed, and until they figured out _what_ , they couldn’t fix it.

Just as the group of traumatized and underpaid demons began to shuffle out, a new one bolted in, sending papers flying around them as they wove around a file while shouting. 

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! I _figured it out_!”

**_“Enough!”_ **

The demon stumbled as Dagon roared in their face, bat ears twitching as they whined and stumbled away before righting themselves, straightening their jacket with a hmph and turning towards the Prince of Darkness.

“My Lord, I found some paperwork you _need_ to see. It was… in the traitor’s file.”

Dagon snatched the papers away immediately, sneering at the lower demon until they cowered away. Ze watched as she shuffled through the papers, face darkening as she read. Dagon began to laugh, then cackle, shaking her head as she straightened the paperwork and passed it over to Beelzebub. “Can’t say the bastard never had his paperwork in order.”

That bad, then.

The Prince accepted them silently, flipping through the paperwork with the speed of someone who had been in charge of a bureaucratical religious cult for six millennia.

_Permission for Transfer of Bads and Disservices, subsection “Flora,” Source: G.o.E., submitted by Crawly, The Serpent_

_Automatically Filled, Filed, and Submitted: Devices and Grounds of Hell to Act as the submitter, one Crawly, The Serpent, to expect them to act, exceptions provided only to objects and beings of sentience pre-meeting Crawly, subsection: Demonic Miracle, subclause: Power of Imagination, exclusive to the submitter_

_Permission for Export of Hellhound excrement to be Used for Bads and the Glory of Hell, subsection: Resources for Evil, submitted by Crowley, The Serpent_

_Permission for Import of Office Supplies, subsection Lighting, subsection Filing Cabinets, subclause: Appealing to The D(r)agon, under Treaty 54J, submitted by Crowley, Anthony J._

The forms went on and on, each one along the same vein. All of their problems, notarized and laid out in 12 point Comic Sans before zir. It all led back to _the traitor_.

The traitor, who was also the only one that could fix this mess.

Beelzebub’s roar of anger could be heard through all of Hell, followed by the stampede of fleeing demons.

Dagon kept laughing.

* * *

[i] So to speak, of course.

[ii] Save, that is, for Hastur, who only had two modes: lurking or screaming panic, and Dagon, holder of Hell’s collective braincell.

[iii] Dagon is, in truth, one of the greatest punishments that one can be faced with in hell. Dagon on an audit binge is below only Holy Water. Demons had been known to jump into an eternal pit of darkness just to escape them.

[iv] Demons were now banned from Ikea, save for one, of course - the founder, Anthony J. Crowley. When Dagon would eventually remind Prince Beelzebub of this, well. It would not be a pretty sight. Even considering Hell’s standards.

[v] Except Dagon, of course. This is a common theme in Hell. If there is to be an exception to anything, it is Dagon. (Crowley used to be included in this, but the traitor is Not To Be Spoken Of nowadays.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Overuse of cursing, and one discorporation via Hellfire. Also: Dagon
> 
> Is it Eric or Erik? Also, 3rd fanfic for Good Omens, in more or less the same number of days. Quarantine has me fucked up and so does online schooling. Life is going to Hell so I'm gonna make these dumbasses suffer with me. Also, my Grammarly is informing me that this note has an "academic tone," and I'd like to know which of the cuss words convinced it of this.


	2. Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything was perfectly fine in Heaven. Really. Honestly! How could it not be, it was HEAVEN. Perfection is in the name, duh. 
> 
> Michael disagrees. 
> 
> So too do the several hundred angels badly in need of a therapist.
> 
> (They all need a therapist. They're in a cult. Please help them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *wipes a tear from my eye* I’m so glad ya’ll appreciate my shitty sense of humor. Tbh I’ve been having a pretty hard time for a while and it’s only gotten worse since a goddamn pandemic happened, and this is kind of how I’m coping and cheering myself up. I hope it makes ya’ll laugh too.
> 
> Anyway, we’ve seen how Hell is managing post-Apocawhoops, so let’s check in on Heaven this time. Shorter chapter I'm afraid, but that's partially cause I wrote chapter 3 first. This is just to tide y'all over, never fear...
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Gabriel exists, despite the author’s best attempts

_“If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?”_

-T.S. Eliot

Gabriel did not need this level of disaster to confirm that he is 2.03 m (or 6’1”). He really didn’t. But alas. Here we are.

* * *

** Heaven, 1 Year and 3 Days After The First Day of The Rest of Their Lives **

* * *

Gabriel stared at Michael.

Michael stared at Gabriel.

Uriel read their magazines from where they sat on a summoned, white plastic office chair nearby, and Sandalphon stood silently in the background, lost in his thoughts.[i]

Gabriel kept staring.

Michael also kept staring.

Uriel flipped the page.

Eventually, the silence was broken by something other than the shuffle of laminated pages.

“I can’t keep staring at you like that. Either give Elizabeth Taylor back her eyes and we’ll continue, or grow up and get ready to talk.”

Gabriel huffed as Michael crossed her arms. Rude. The archangel sighed, shrugging as he directed his best customer service smile at his sister.[ii] “Of course, of course! Whatever seems to be the problem?”

Michael, for her part, did her utmost best not to give in to the urge to punch Gabriel in his backpfeifengesicht.[iii]

It truly was an effort worthy of praise. Sandalphon golf clapped in the background. Uriel didn’t bother to look up.

“Thank you,” she smiled. It was not a particularly nice smile, for all that it had the right curves and brightness. If a demon named Dagon was present, they would surely have shed a tear at the beauty of the sight. “Gabriel, I think we should discuss the Earth Operation missions again - “

“Ah, yes!” Michael’s smile grew wider as Gabriel cut her off. Sandalphon shuffled back a few more steps. “I was planning on sending out another memo today, actually. Look for a few more volunteers to go off and Spread the Glory of G@d to the humans! Can’t really expect them to understand on their own, poor things - “

“A wonderful idea, of course.” The sharpest blade on Earth would look dull next to Michael’s perfectly friendly smile.[iv] “But Gabriel, we have been sending out memos for several months now. Perhaps it is time for a more… organized… approach?”

Gabriel scrunched his face and gave a little wiggle of a shrug, never losing or changing his empty grin. “Now Michael, if this is about the Elite Force again, you know I’m going to have to disagree. I mean, we’re angels! We’re all elite by birthright - so to speak, haha! - and it doesn’t exactly suit us, yeah? I’m sure we can find someone from the lower choirs who will be perfect for the job.”

Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon watched as one such angel, an early volunteer for the Earth Operation replacement position, walked by, empty-eyed and shaking with their hands clamped over their ears. Gabriel very much did _not_ look over, and instead finished his speech. 

Nothing was wrong. Everything was perfect. It is Heaven, after all.

“...We need a therapist.”

“Pfft, Michael! We’re not _humans_! We can do no wrong, there’s no need for some silly human science.” 

Michael looked at the retreating form of the angel, then to Gabriel, back to the angel, back to Gabriel. “You need a therapist.”

The messenger rolled his purple, stolen-from-Elizabeth-Taylor-herself eyes. “Now you’re just exaggerating. We can’t encourage this behavior, Michael, think about what it would do to morale, yeah? The others agree, don’t they?”

Sandalphon nodded, gold tooth glinting as he tried and fail to grin. Uriel shook out her reading material, which suddenly became a copy of a mental health magazine. Gabriel politely pretended that Uriel did not exist. 

“See? Nothing to worry about!”

Michael sighed and shook her head. They had undergone this conversation many times. The only positive thing to come out of it so far had been Uriel’s silent support after the first three hundred angel discorporations.[v]

“ _Gabriel_.”

The offensively American man stiffened. His smile twitched. Sandalphon took a large step back. Uriel looked up from her magazine. That was Michael’s Serious voice, her _I’m the one taking Holy Water_ _to Hell_ voice, even though they hate me the most of us all down there. Her “I will protect” and “I will avenge” and “if you don’t listen to me right now, Lord help me, I _will_ beat the shit out of you” voice. 

“My… back channels have informed me - “ she saw the messenger opening his mouth and continued on, emphasizing her words - “ _My back channels have informed me_ that Hell will soon be on the mend.”

Uriel closed the magazine. Michael continued.

“Apparently, they’ve discovered the source of their problems and are creating a plan to… fix the situation. We can’t keep putting this off any longer.”

Purple eyes met Michael’s as the man-shaped being sighed, smile falling away as the Messenger watched his sister. “What would you have us do? We can’t put together an elite force unless they make a move first, you know that. At least not a public one. And we need a public representative.”

The warrior angel, She who was of G@d, smirked, clasping her hands together as she turned to address all three of her fellow Archangels.

“We need Aziraphale.”

Somewhere in the distance, an Earth-traumatized angel screamed. 

* * *

[i] It is for the sanity and well-being of all involved that said thoughts are looked at no closer.

[ii] For a certain definition of sister, anyway. The angels were all siblings in the way that none of them were siblings, being created directly by G@d Herself and all that. But the Archangels had been created first, created together, and saw each other as siblings. They used to, anyway. Things had certainly changed since the Fall…

[iii] German word for "a face that’s badly in need of a fist/punching/etc." Forgive me, Jon Hamm. You played the role of an asshole too well.

[iv] The only things sharper in existence were: Dagon’s teeth and all of Crowley.

[v] Gabriel, Uriel, and Michael all have their own braincell. It’s just that they tend to deny it’s existence so hard that it doesn’t help them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legend has it that the Archangels each had run-ins with Medusa. Sandalphon tried to kill her on sight, but she turned him into salt and sent him back upstairs. Uriel was then sent to deal with her, but the angel just gave her a strictly worded memo before going off in search of Sappho. Gabriel showed up and talked at her for six hours. Medusa did her best to turn him to stone, but his ego was just too big. Finally, the last Archangel was sent. Medusa saw Michael smile at her and turned to stone.
> 
> ANYWAY!
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at @ryuu-from-the-grave (main blog), @ryuu-scribbles (art/writing blog), or @ineffably-ryuu (Good Omens blog). In case you haven’t picked up on it yet: Hi, I’m Ryuu.
> 
> Am I… hinting at a serious plot in the footnotes? Maybe yes, maybe no. (The truth is that the author only planned out several of the chapters and overall premise, and is now trying to figure out what should go where in between. Also, fae likes fucking with ya’ll. And yes, the author uses they/them and fae/faer pronouns.)
> 
> Chapter three is already done, should be posted in a couple of days.


	3. It went something like this...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, Crowley cracked the lifehack into Hells's bad-ish books and the angels infected each other with a bad case of politics. Aziraphale, for his part, was on Earth at the time and happily abstained. The two notoriously ineffable field agents may share a single braincell, but unlike most*, they know how to use it. 
> 
> *except Dagon. Always, except Dagon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Good Friday, and belated-ish happy Passover, and any other religious and/or personal events and holidays happening in your life that I do not know about but am pleased you get to experience and hope the best of for you. Anyway.
> 
> Fun fact I wrote this chapter before the second one.
> 
> "Author, why do you use so many 'except Dagon' jokes?" Because I like their character design and find them amusing. For the record, most except Dagon jokes could be substituted for Beelzebub, except Beelz is busy breaking into zir emergency vodka stash and trying to forget the entire century. Also, I'm gay.**
> 
> **(I'm bi, but you see my point)
> 
> Challenge of the chapter: How many times did Grammarly try to correct me when I purposely broke the Comma Laws for the sake of dramatic timing and flow?
> 
> Warnings: Here be Archangels, capitalists of the occult variety, politicians of ethereal nature, and massive levels of gross incompetence

** 1 Year and 1 Week After The First Day of the Rest of Their Lives **

* * *

It went something like this: Crawly, for all that he was a pine tree in a trench coat filled with anxiety and impulsivity, was smart. He was observant. He watched the humans, learned as they learned, figured out the right words and actions to get him what he wanted.

It didn’t take long before business and bureaucracy arose hand-in-hand, familiar enough to Hell to make Crawly watch, and watch closely. In observing and tempting corrupt businesspeople and politicians, one thing became evident very quickly: the happier the boss, the less chance of the employees being punished.

Even if that particular employee had done nothing but the best work, if something else went wrong, or if the boss was just in a bad mood, there was a chance that they would bear the brunt of it. Crawly had seen similar situations. Crawly did _not_ want to end up as a toothpick for Dagon or ashes to decorate Beelzebub’s throne room.

So, he planned. Planned, and acted. He already had a reputation from the Original Sin, along with being Hell’s main field agent. It was easy enough to slide in here and there, drop some forms off at some inattentive secretary’s desk - the Sloth department was always a safe bet - or even just file it away himself. 

Everything that needed fixing, everything he could do to alleviate just a little bit of his bosses’ horrible temper, Crawly did. 

The plants started out as an accident. He had saved several cuttings and seeds from the Garden of Eden and made a garden of his own. Crawly had been in the middle of replanting when he was summoned back to Hell, appearing outside Hastur’s office covered in dirt and with a flower in his hand.

He was quick to shove it away and hide it in a crack in the wall before slithering off to whatever oh so important meeting he’d been summoned for. By the time the redhead returned, the flower was fairly covered in flies.

Yeah, no, not touching that. Beelzebub’s flower now. 

Still, it had given Crawly an Idea. 

Whenever one of his plants got it into their chlorophyll-filled selves to disobey and be less than perfect, Crawly took it down to Hell and planted it with its brethren. Rebellious little shits belonged with the original rebellious little shits, after all. 

The plants didn’t have access to the sun, but they grew anyway. Crawly Expected them to, after all. He expected them to survive, and adapt, and grow, and so they did. 

Walls became covered in them, gardens of phosphorescent mosses and ferns and sickly-sweet flowers cropping up in corners here and there. The cacti and other succulents were a huge hit when Crawly - who had since become Crowley by that time - found them, and she[i] couldn’t help the smirk whenever she saw a demon smuggling one away for themselves. 

Over the centuries, Crowley continued bringing inventions and interesting flora back to Hell. 

Tired of constantly playing the “Let there be light” game whenever you needed to see? Check out these candles - and lamps - oh and now there’s electricity, look at that. Wires busted? I can fix it. Computer isn’t working? Have you checked that it’s plugged in? Turned it on and off? Ah, it’s working now? Terrific! No need to let the bosses know about the little mishap, eh? 

Hastur complaining about the leak again? Well shit, it ruined your paperwork? Wonder what Dagon will say about that… Wha- Are you crying? Stop that! Here, just - hold on - knew a rather good carpenter from Nazareth once, he taught me a thing or two - and there we go. No leak. You don’t say a word of this, hear me? Good. If it happens again, just let me know. The Dukes don’t need to worry about this. And Dagon especially doesn’t need to know about you ruining their paperwork, hm? Thought so. Ciao!

Dagon complaining about disorganization with the files again? The humans have these things called bookshelves, might as well drop some off - oh, they’ve made filing cabinets now? Terrific! Just drop a couple of those off by their office, that’s a dear. No, no, don’t bother them about it. I’ll turn in the paperwork myself. You know how they are about paperwork.

For centuries Crowley did every and any odd job in Hell that he could find, sneaking in at least once a week just for a quick inventory check and to take care of details. It grew to the point that the lower demons didn’t even register his presence, just nodding when they saw him and feeling assured that somehow, they’d make it through the rest of the day. 

Indeed, this is part of the reason it took a sneaky and half out of their mind from caffeine withdrawal secretary to realize why Hell was falling to pieces without Crowley. 

Say you are a lower level worker. Maybe even a disposable one. You have been harassed, belittled, threatened, and occasionally somewhat killed by your bosses for six millennia. There is a coworker - a legend, a prodigy, one of the top brass - who by all means should be the same. Instead, he fixes any and all your problems faster than the ancient desktop can start up - oh, and then he replaces that, too. 

When this coworker is almost killed by your bosses, the resentment grows. When everything starts to fail and you know it‘s because of a very specific demon, you don’t say a word. 

You watch your bosses suffer, and you laugh. And laugh. And laugh. And flip them the bird and other rude gestures behind closed doors and then sprint away, just in case.

In short, the reasons are thus: gratitude and schadenfreude. 

The other reasons are more simple: some demons never pull their heads from their asses[ii] and so never see or realize the connection, or the key figure was lost in The Who said Who did What and When and Huh nature of the Rumor Mill. 

And so it was that the demon Crowley left Hell behind without a second glance, joined his angel at their park and then the Ritz, and enjoyed a year of freedom and peace.[iii]

That is, until an Eric showed up on the steps of the bookshop a year and a week later. 

* * *

It went something like this: just as Crowley was the only demon with Imagination, Aziraphale was the only angel with a lick of common sense.

This didn’t necessarily mean he always used it, of course, but he did possess it, which was more than the rest could say.[iv]

Some of the angels certainly did a fairly good job of pretending that they had it[v], but alas. No. No, they did not. Sure, there were plenty of _intelligent_ angels. And the Archangels, in particular, were well versed in the ways of political and emotional manipulation, bureaucratic maneuvering, and generally making right arseholes of themselves.

But they were, at the end of the day, _politicians_. They had started off differently, of course - warriors and healers and artists and messengers and so on and so forth. But six millennia spent in a completely sterile, white environment with only celestial harmonies and Gabriel’s gaslighting and etcetera tendencies for company meant there were only two options for survival: give in to the madness and take the escalator down, or become a political and molded figure in the cult of Fortune 500 rejects.

Now, if there is one thing known about politicians, it is this: they don’t have the good sense G@d gave them.[vi] You could do your best to beat some sense into them with a 2 by 4, and the plank of wood would sooner crack on their thick skulls than make any sort of impact.

Aziraphale, having spent six millennia on Earth and seen many, many, _many_ corrupt governments, had a deep, burning loathing for politicians. So he pasted on his poor poker face, kept his eyes open, and retained his common sense. This allowed him to survive and even thrive on Earth, with the help of numerous miracles and Crowley, of course.

But without Aziraphale, there was no Field Agent on Earth and, more importantly, no one capable of being a Field Agent on Earth.

And they tried.

Oh, how they tried. 

In their ideal environment, politicians do quite well for themselves. Too well, in fact, because they’re siphoning off the lifeblood and money of those under them. But say a politician is dropped off all on their own into the Amazon Rainforest and told to explore it while forming alliances with the indigenous peoples and keeping records of all the species they see.

The politician would last approximately 18.27 hours. If they were lucky.

Angels on Earth lasted less.

That being said, it is necessary to specify that it is not necessarily _their_ fault. Blame can and should be pinned to certain people, cough the Archangels cough, but their underlings were sheltered in the way of factory workers who could never leave and instead just sat in all but silence while they worked. All-day and every day.

For decades. And centuries. And millennia.

And then you drop one of them into the heart of London with only a pamphlet full of ClipArt pictures for references.

It’s loud. It’s loud and it’s noisy and it’s _colorful_ and it’s simultaneously the best and worst thing they’ve ever experienced. But it’s also _too much_. There are huge and heavy machines roaring past - “cars,” informs the fuzzy image in the lower left of the second page of the pamphlet - and the scent of smoke they give off is enough to make them cough and eyes water. Have they ever smelled before? They’re not certain.

People on all sides are bumping into them. They haven’t had any contact outside of sparring since 54 A.D. Their white shoes are already dirty. Everyone’s emotions are _everywhere_ , and it’s all they can do to stay silent instead of crying out for their Mother.

They leave Earth immediately, returning to Heaven by the droves until Michael starts making noises about “an elite team” and also “therapists, Gabriel, we need therapists.”

Not all angels give up so quickly, of course. Some stand on street corners yelling about the averted Armageddon and redemption through G@d, Glory to Her on Highest, and other things commonly screeched by the deranged. Only one person has ever truly listened to these types of people, and Newton Pulsifer is quite happily besotted with and now only listens to one Anathema Device.

As such, their efforts are absolutely useless. Also, they keep getting arrested.

Angels being arrested is not a good look in the 21st century. 

If Hell wasn’t busy having the peak of their six millennia breakdown, they’d be absolutely chuffed at the thought of some wank wings in all white stuck in a cell next to a group of teenagers smelling of weed and smoke, three drunk college students, a large figure covered in tattoos, and a man in a finely pressed black suit with blood on his shiny dress shoes.[vii]

And so, as the 756th angel popped back in before the Archangels, crying and rambling on their knees, Gabriel almost felt like joining them.

Earth isn’t _that bad_ , really! He still went jogging down there every now and then, even. Sure, it’s a den of iniquity in the worst kind of way and really should have been razed down in the War To End All Wars, but the trees are nice!

Gabriel had rather forgotten that while he and the other Archangels have kept up with visits to Earth throughout the centuries, most Angels haven’t been there since travel by donkey was a luxury. 

The world had changed a lot since then.

A lot.

But alas the size of his ego blinds him, and so Gabriel dismissed the broken angel and Uriel ushered them towards the new “meditation room,” as Michael had dubbed it. Speaking of Michael, she turned towards her brother and the Messenger already knew what she was going to say.

He sighed, and agreed.

Aziraphale had been rather enjoying the past year. He and Crowley have been working through the issues left to them by their respective departments and continued to dance around what they might really be saying each time they murmur “Our Side” to each other, voices full of tenderness and secrets. It was a good life, a quiet one, and he was quite enjoying it.

At least, he was up until Gabriel darkened his doorstep, side by side with a rather uncomfortable looking goth.[viii]

* * *

[i] Crowley is genderfluid. She was a she at the time.

[ii] See: Hastur

[iii] To be honest, he actually rather missed the free Hellhound fertilizer. For some reason, the roses loved it. 

[iv] See: Bastille, crepes, French Revolution, etc.

[v] See: Michael

[vi] Quite literally, in this case, considering, you know, angels.

[vii] The large figure covered in tattoos actually turns out to be a wonderful conversationalist. They enjoy embroidery. The angels are convinced that the “suited man” is Satan. And also stalking them. They’re partly correct.

[viii] One could argue that Aziraphale was correct in saying that the figure was a goth. It’s just that the goth happened to be named Eric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on Tumblr a @ryuu-scribbles (art/writing blog), or @ineffably-ryuu (Good Omens blog).  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ryuu-scribbles  
> https://ineffably-ryuu.tumblr.com/  
> Please talk to me. I'm so bored/lonely/slowly going out of my mind - ahem.
> 
> Let Crowley say gosh and terrific 2020.
> 
> For anyone who has seen my other stories/knows what other fandoms I’m in: can you guess who the man in the black suit with blood on his shoes is?
> 
> Anyway, here is the third chapter. Hopefully, Azi and Crow will be popping up in the next one. I don’t think this chapter is as funny as the other ones, especially the second half, but that’s partly because I just find Heaven to be… sad. I think my bias is fairly obvious, but I tried. And Heaven is going to see an uptick in comedy once Aziraphale lets some of his bastard out. 
> 
> Me writing Heaven: It’s hard for me to turn this into comedy because it’s so familiar to the life I’ve been trying to pull away from. It’s a terrible and tragic place, and I’m struggling to combine my rants on the corruption and tragedy of this societal model with humor.
> 
> Me writing about Hell, where people get straight-up murked repeatedly: Lmao get DUNKED ON
> 
> Hell doesn’t lie about what you get. It’s Hell. I appreciate that more than Gabriel’s customer smile backpfeifengesicht. And no, that word is never, ever, going away.
> 
> Comments sustain the vampire author and kudos remind them to drink water in between typing sessions.


	4. The Tower of Buggre All This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heaven and Hell need to re-recruit their best incompetent agents, who also happen to be immune to their best weapons (or so they think, anyway) and once conned them for a span of 6,000 years. It doesn’t get off to a good start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned that I love ya’ll cause I doooooo. Anyway, this flood of updates is sponsored by quarantine and oh-G@d-I-don’t-want-to-do-my-chem-lab-reports, which is an unfortunate state of being, seeing as I really need to do my chem lab reports. Alas. 
> 
> I wrote this in between guzzling tea and hot chocolate, sadly not the Irish kind, because I’m not old enough to drink in America. Tragically, considering it means I can’t accurately write alcohol taste or drunkenness, and quite a few supernatural beings will be reaching for the alcohol at different points in this story.
> 
> Challenge of the Chapter: How many times does someone smile, or how many ways can Gabriel get wrekt. Also, Grammarly let me say terrified awe and use contractions 2020.

_“People who create their own drama deserve their own karma.”_

-Chiva, who the author tried to look up but failed to find info on

-Crowley, sipping his tea and generally being an agent of righteous chaos

* * *

Aziraphale stared at the two beings on his doorstep, taking in the black and white color schemes, suspicious glances, and strained expressions, eventually meeting the purple eyes of his former boss and failed executioner.[i]

Gabriel smiled at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled at Gabriel.

Archangel fucking Gabriel moved to enter the bookshop, taking a step forward. And then the door slammed shut with all the strength of a panicking Principality. This was followed by a thunk and in quick succession by a crack and a cry, which then led to several more heavy thuds. 

Silence.

Aziraphale’s smile trembled.

Crowley slither-stepped over from where he’d been poking at the bookshelves. “Angel? Everything all right?”

The blonde whipped around; eyes wide as he nodded. “Oh yes, of course! Just tickety boo, my dear.”

A red eyebrow rose.

“That’s your lying face, that is. Wot’s going on?”

Before Aziraphale could continue pretending to be able to lie to Crowley without making him incredibly confused and suspicious, the bookshop door slammed open[ii] to reveal a dirtied, wide-eyed Gabriel, clutching face. Which was rather smeared with red that appeared to be blood, upon closer inspection.[iii]

“Did you just _break my nose?_ ”

A certain book-loving Principality laughed nervously. 

“No,” he said. Like a liar.

Eric had never been so full of terrified awe in his life. Crowley, for his part, was falling in love all over again.[iv] Gabriel, meanwhile, seemed to have gone into shock. Less because of his nose, and more because he was beginning to wonder just how many times Aziraphale had lied directly to his backpfeifengesicht.

The answer was many, but fewer times than he deserved. 

“You _broke_ Archangel Gabriel’s _nose_ … You knocked him down the _stairs_ with a _door_ …” The hushed voice was one that a being might use to speak to G@d, or someone else of equal unimaginable power who inspire both the most respect and also oh-shit-I'm gonna-fucking-DIE-terror, especially when it belonged to someone who once asked for permission to punch said awe-worthy being in the face and assisted in their attempted murder. It was almost enough to cover up a certain serpent’s snort and hissing, breathless laughter that borderlined on hysteria. 

“Yes, well, he shouldn’t have tried to enter uninvited. It’s very rude.”

Indeed, Eric well and truly looked like he’d found Her all over again, except this time it was in the form of a soft and flustered Principality with impeccably out of date fashion instead of a pulsating mass of celestial light that was occasionally human-shaped.[v]

As the representatives of Heaven and Hell continued to stare dumbstruck at their former colleagues, said colleagues shared a Look, the kind that can only belong to people who have faced and embraced the mortifying ordeal of being known. 

Aziraphale nodded and straightened his coat. Crowley slid on his shades.

“I’ll get the kettle on, my dear.”

“Thanks, angel. I’ll get started on this lot.”

After Aziraphale had turned to putter around in the kitchen and quite possibly miracle up some Holy Water but before Crowley had the chance to so much as hiss at his victims - that is, guests - Eric was already stumbling away nervously, rather reluctant to be discorporated in whatever horrible fashion someone who even Hell was scared of could devise. 

In doing so, he accidentally knocked over a pile of books. Fortunately, Aziraphale had already left the room and wouldn’t impulsively eviscerate him for the grievous crime. Unfortunately, said angel liked his order best as chaos, and the demon which shared his living space had a penchant for dominos.

We see where this is going, yes?

The trio froze, not daring to move as they watched the books scatter. A particular thick hardcover edition of War and Peace flew the farthest, coming to a stop with a thud against another, bigger stack of books.

The stack teetered.

They held their breath.

The stack stilled.

The group released their unnecessary breath with a sigh, slumping forward in relief. Dust that had been purposefully built up over two centuries in order to discourage customers sensed its chance and was blown into the air by the combined force of the supernatural entities’ breath.

Eric sneezed. Right next to the previously mentioned stack of books.

“Oh, shi -”

If Crowley was not busy planning his eulogy for when the (unconfessed to and possibly unrequited) love of his life returned and dunked him in Holy Water for the inappropriate usage of his books, the demon may have said that it was the most beautiful sight he’d lain eyes on since he brought Aziraphale crepes from the place down the street.[vi] **[vii]**

One after another, the stacks fell like the towering trees of old besieged by a mighty wind. 

The pattern spiraled out, weaving between bookshelves and chairs as they spilled into piles and mountains of paper and ink. Golden serpent eyes were fixed on the final book, the one and only Buggre All This Bible, the pinnacle of this demonic accomplishment. He watched, frozen as it wavered, wobbled, slid, and finally followed the rest of its brethren down, down, down -

Until it smacked right into Gabriel’s head.

The archangel stumbled, and fell.[viii]

Eric stared at Crowley.

Crowley stared at Eric.

“Ngk, uh -”

And then he was whirling around because _holy shit Aziraphale would be back any minute now_ and snapping his fingers, all the books mysteriously popping back onto their shelves and respective stacks - now of moderate size with great distance in between - leaving the only sign of recent near-apocalyptic events being the heavenly politician face-down on the carpet rug, still leaking blood. 

With the luck of the devil on his side, Aziraphale waited just long enough to avoid the carnage before exiting with a worried expression, tea kettle in hand and brandished almost menacingly.

He paused, saw his unconscious ex-boss, and frowned. “I’ve kept that rug spick and span since this shop opened. Two centuries! And now, oh, the blood will clash so horribly once it dries.”[ix]

Eric gulped, and Aziraphale immediately looked contrite. “Oh, I’m sorry, that wasn’t very angelic of me, was it…”

Crowley grunted from where he was slinging the heap of Gabriel over his shoulder like a particularly annoying sack of purple-eyed potatoes.[x] “Don’t you worry about it, angel. I’ll take care of the rug, and you know you’re still the best of the lot. I’m sure good ol’ Mikey for one has dreamed about knocking this bastard out more than once.”

“Oh yes, you’re right about that, my dear. Why, just after that whole Mary debacle, I do believe - “

The disposable demon was indeed feeling very disposable. Such is the fate of all third wheels, so long as they’re not part of a polyamorous relationship, tricycle, or dubious cars knows as Dick Turpin, of course. But no, none of them were any sort of transportation vehicle, and Eric was most certainly not looking for a relationship with the Traitors, who were quite content with each other.

Or they would be if they had confessed yet. Alas. Alas, alas, alas.

Idiots.

Gabriel was dumped unceremoniously on a loveseat that quite miraculously appeared in the cozy backroom to accompany the usual desk and sofa. Eric hovered nearby, uncertain whether he was supposed to sit or not while Aziraphale shuffled off to bring out the cups and saucers for tea. 

Now, if there is one thing _not_ to do around Crowley, it is hovering.[xi] He Does Not appreciate it. There are several possible outcomes for anyone who dares to do this activity in the redhead’s vicinity. 

The first and most common can be avoided simply by leaving the scene as quickly as possible. When someone just hangs nearby, fluttering and staring and _judging_ you, it is enough to fill even the most confident person with anxiety.[xii] Crowley is not the most confident of people. 

As such, he snaps. If you’re lucky, you’ll simply be blistered by a burning verbal roast that strips the remaining plumage from your wings and leaves you feeling more exposed than Death, who doesn’t even have skin. If you’re _un_ lucky, well, congratulations! You’ll have a permanent spot in Hell’s panic room if you survive the onslaught of Chaos.[xiii]

Another usual reaction is that he simply leaves. He’s gone. Noped right the fuck out. Oh, there’s a giant snake seven hallways away departing at Mach 50? Yeah, it’s fine. Just let him go. I’ll ask about the paperwork next Monday - wait no stop dON’T CALL DAGON -!

And then, the most uncommon. One could compare its rarity to finding a flock of shiny Pokémon, or of lightning doing a thirty-minute tap dance in the same spot for Saturday Night Live.[xiv]

If the person hovering was just nervous enough, and harmless enough, and favored by Crowley just enough, well then. It may just be that the hovering would activate what a certain bastard of an angel fondly referred to as the “Nanny instinct,” which had only occasionally reared its head over the six millennia. Such as when hundreds of children were going to be drowned by Her for the sins of their parents, or when struggling with the choice of what to do with an antichrist, or when seeing a certain Thaddeus Dowling making a very large mistake.

Crowley and Eric had never truly interacted, but they both knew of each other. 

For Eric, the serpent demon had been something of an idol, a role model to follow amidst the chaos and constant harassment of Hell. Always on the edge of cutting trends, always seven steps ahead and to the left, creator of the Original Sin, and an all-around efficient flash bastard. The fact that Crowley often caused a distraction whenever it seemed like some of the elder demons wanted to torment the so-termed Disposable Demon certainly didn’t hurt, either.

Crowley, meanwhile, was well aware of his fanboy. Eric followed him on Twitter _and_ Instagram, after all.[xv] The multitude wasn’t a bad sort, especially for a demon. A bit too brainwashed into the cult of Hell, but what else is new. To be honest, he’d always felt a bit badly for the kid, constantly being tortured and destroyed by the other demons just because he was split among multiple corporations and hosts. 

In short, Crowley’s “Nanny Instinct” in regard to Eric had actually been activated four thousand years ago, and now no longer had to be suppressed. 

Somewhere, also known as the Throne Room of Hell, Beelzebub was having a Very Bad Feeling, and not about the four hundred and sixty-ninth leak that Hastur was reporting.

* * *

[i] One of his failed executioners, anyway. It had happened rather more times throughout history than Aziraphale would care to admit. Gabriel, however, was the first to live past the nightfall of the attempt. (Angel who never actually killed anyone my ass. [see: Bastille] And if the angel didn’t feel up to a spot of manslaughter, well, he had a very protective demon for a best friend.)

[ii] The poor door, while used to it, was quite tired of being slammed at this point. It would like to join Beelzebub if ze ever did go on vacation in Majorca, although the humidity didn’t quite agree with it.

[iii] Eric, for his part, was doing his best to blend into the door. It wasn’t working, but he was trying his best and that’s what matters.

[iv] A fairly common occurrence, actually. The demon could fit more emotions in his eyes alone than atoms in a mole. (6.022x10^23, for any who were wondering. The author forgets that most people love themselves enough to not be a molecular biology/science major.)

[v] Technically, humans were G@d shaped, not the other way around. G@d came first. It’s just that She made them in Her image, and, well, Eric didn’t really care about technicalities unless they involved him directly. Like ways to get to the donuts in the office on Saturdays before Dagon did. (He was the only one to dare try. He had succeeded once. Once, and at great cost.)

[vi] This morning. Crowley last brought crepes for Aziraphale to eat while being sequestered in his bookshop, free to talk and laugh without prying eyes, this morning.

[vii] Eric would include this event in his report to Head Office. Dagon, upon reading it, would be moved to near tears and so inspired that they would replicate the event using stacks of duplicated reports from the last 18 centuries and Hastur. 

[viii] Not Fell fell, just faceplanted onto the carpet. Which now had blood on it. Rude, Gabriel. Should’ve aimed for something easier to clean before you passed out from blunt force trauma to the head (twice).

[ix] This is a lie. That particular rug had undergone many a wine and hot chocolate spill, especially when angel and demon duo dined together. Crowley, however, had excellent miracle abilities, and as long as Aziraphale wasn’t the one miracling the stains away, he didn’t count it as ever having been dirty in the first place.

[x] Get it? Cause the divots in potatoes are called eyes and Gabriel - yeah okay I’ll show myself out. Eric will type the rest.

[xi] The exception to this is not Dagon, for once. It is Aziraphale. Because this is Crowley, so of course it is. Dagon had indeed tried it once, and several filing cabinets had been lost in the ensuing scuffle. It was a dark decade indeed in Hell. 

[xii] Perhaps not Gabriel, but, well, note the use of “confident” and not “egotistical” or “narcissistic” or – you get the point. 

[xiii] It would be interesting to note that most generally decent people who find themselves on the other side of Crowley’s chaos tend to recover with no lasting damage. 

[xiv] This was actually Gabriel’s fault. He never explained and denied it entirely. But it was him. 

[xv] Crowley may have helped invent Facebook, but that didn’t mean he used it. He’d learned from the M25.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mention of blood, gratuitous use of footnotes, weaponized books, Gabriel, John Mulaney references
> 
> I just felt like ending it there. I know, I’m a dick. But my first name isn’t Archangel and my middle name isn’t fucking, so it could be worse.
> 
> Recommended fan content for the chapter: pinkpiggy93 on Tumblr wrote about 18 seconds of a song with a piece of fanart for Good Omens. I listened to it. On loop. For a solid half of this chapter. Go. Watch it.
> 
> Meanwhile, if Gabriel had a song it would be “wannabe” by DEMONDICE. 
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> Does Eric have an official animal form? When I first saw him in the show I thought jackal, but nowadays I lean towards rabbit, between the hair and multiplication. Also, I needed him to Not be a jackal for my Darwinian Demonology fic. Thoughts?
> 
> Also, I miss Beelzebub POV. And background Dagon. Luckily, ze should be returning soon… also added some new character tags so have fun wondering about that. Oh, and @kid-does-stuff over on Tumblr suggested “Angelfish” as the ship name for Michael x Dagon. Personally, I love it. Opinions?
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr @ryuu-scribbles (art/writing) and/or @ineffably-ryuu (good omens blog). Feel free to leave asks or DM me or whatever. I also have an Instagram @ryuu_of_rome if you prefer that. Ciao.
> 
> Comments and kudos make the Author smile and write more instead of turn into Ligur post-Holy Water ice-bucket challenge on the bed.


	5. Drink the Fucking Tea, Mate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel continues to have a Bad Day.
> 
> Eric, meanwhile, has found his heroes. He should start a cult. That’s what you did for your heroes, right? There’s enough of him to start a cult. Yeah, that sounds like a great idea. In no way could it go wrong or have any negative consequences ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alain from Clutch Prep, if you send me one more message saying that “you get it, chemistry is just too hard” I am going to summon Dagon, bribe them with donuts + sushi, and sic them on you. 
> 
> Sorry about the delay in this one, life kicked my ass. My grandfather got really sick and we had to take him to the hospital. He’s in surgery currently but it should be fine. My state is going to be the first to reopen from lockdown despite denying people coronavirus tests. I’m immune-compromised. School is also not going fantastically, so. Hmm. Coping with humor at 1 am? More likely than you think. Good Omens is playing on my laptop next to me as I type this on my iPad, both using the hotspot on my phone because the internet service is out. 
> 
> Author tried to work on a different fic and essays but the dry humor tone kept escaping. Also, the author wants you to know that they don’t enter a single one of these chapters with a plan. This story does not have a plan. There is no plot. This fic is an experiment example of yeet. Good luck to us all. 
> 
> Challenge of the Chapter: Can you pinpoint the second Gabriel’s shriveled heart (and remaining sanity) break

_ “They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts.” _

-The Bible, Acts 2:46

-Aziraphale, while smacking Archangel fucking Gabriel over the head with said Book

* * *

Gabriel opened his purple eyes. And then rather wished that he hadn’t.

Dear Lord, they were _multiplying_.[i]

Across from him, Aziraphale sat in an ancient and yet miraculously fluffy armchair, sipping hot cocoa from an angel-winged mug. He was smirking, the bastard. 

Unwillingly, the archangel glanced back to where his worst nightmare was unfolding before him. The demon from the doorstep was looking up at the redheaded disaster like he had hung the stars[ii], soaking up the mix of lecture and offhand storytelling from Crowley.[iii]

“What about the French Revolution? Are the stories true that -”

The goth with an unfortunate hairstyle was cut off by the serpent scoffing, rolling his eyes and waving at the principality, who was suddenly blushing and looking away from the two. “Please, angel here had more to do with that than I did. The _Bastille_ , honestly - “

Aziraphale cleared his throat, looking rather pointedly at his former Adversary and current best friend.[iv] “That’s quite enough of that, thank you.”

Which. What? _What?_ Aziraphale - French Revolution - Um?!

Gabriel’s head hurt. 

Were they saying that Aziraphale - _Aziraphale_ , much too soft angel of the Eastern Gate - was responsible for the massacre that was the French Revolution?[v]

Tragically, before the archangel’s head could combust from recent revelations and blunt force trauma, the scene was continuing on with the force of a vaguely violent and awkward roller coaster. 

In between one blink and the next, Crowley had somehow managed to make his way from the front of the room to the usual sofa near Aziraphale, where he sprawled in the way only snakes stuck in a human corporation can. This left the only free seat with Gabriel.

Poor Eric.

The demon hesitated only briefly before slumping onto the cushions next to the extremely powerful and occasionally murderous archangel. He shifted for several moments in an attempt to copy Crowley’s sprawl[vi] before giving up and settling for being as far away from Gabriel as possible.

“Would you like some tea, Gabriel?”

The archangel sneered, straightening from where he had been slumped against the couch. “I do not _sully_ my body with gross matter, Aziraphale, you know this -”

A flash of yellow snake eyes cut him off as Crowley leaned forward, lowering his glasses as he very pointedly poured a cup of tea and slid it towards Gabriel. 

Gabriel took it.

Aziraphale sighed as he set down his cocoa, turning to face the very serious representatives of the very dangerous Heaven and Hell. One of whom was still looking particularly dazed and slightly bloody, while the other was vibrating with the barely constrained awe of several thousand fans meeting their favorite celebrity. Truly, the best possible representatives.

The principality cleared his throat, politely bringing the three others in the bookshop as well as the author back to attention. “Not that it isn’t… lovely… to see you both, but may I ask what brings you here? It had rather been our understanding that we would be left alone from now on.”

“Ah, well, ya see -”

Before Eric could finish his sentence, Gabriel and his American mouth cut him off. “You’re being reinstated, Aziraphale. And promoted. Congratulations!” The man gave a proud and condescending smile, already barreling on before that loaded statement had been processed by his audience. 

“We expect you back within the next twenty-four hours, of course. Lots of work to do, haha! Your first assignment -”

Aziraphale’s eyes met Crowley’s, both of them wide with shock. Words passed between them in the age-old silent communication of best friends[vii] largely along the lines of “what is happening” and “I have no idea, what do we do?” 

But there was an echo of another conversation between them, one that had been repeated over the past 6,000 years and was full of sorrow and regret. 

Aziraphale had always been on Heaven’s side, after all. It had taken the actual end of the world to change this, and Crowley had always wondered what would happen if Heaven was an option once again. If maybe -

The principality in question did not appreciate the turn this silent conversation was taking. It was too familiar and too raw a wound. Instead, it would have to be verbally addressed at a later time when there wasn’t an archangel and a legion on his couch. However, the glimpse of pained serpent eyes was enough to give Aziraphale the courage to do something he had always wanted.

Namely, to interrupt Gabriel.

“Please do shut up.”

For the second time in the same day, Aziraphale had caused an absolutely gobsmacked expression to cross the archangel fucking Gabriel’s face. Eric took a picture with his phone.

It was beautiful. 

“Um, no? I am your superior -”

“You _were_ my superior. I am retired. And quite happily so, thank you.”

Crowley barely withheld a choked off noise that may or may not roughly translate to “ngk.” It was lucky indeed that a demon’s love couldn’t be easily sensed, or the emotion pouring off of him would be enough to make an angel drunk off it. And Gabriel had spent enough time unconscious on their sofa. 

“You’re an _angel_. You have a duty -”

“A duty to G@d, yes. And unless She has said something demanding my return, I see no reason to go back to the place that tried to execute me with Hellfire.”

Eric shuffled lower in his seat and raised a throw pillow to cover his face. Oops. 

The grin on Gabriel’s face had twisted into something even more unpleasant than usual. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it. Closed it. Sighed. 

“I will not discuss this in front of a demon.”

Both Eric and Crowley pointed at themselves, giving the classic “Who, me?” expression. Aziraphale shook his head. “Eric, dear, would you mind waiting in the front of the bookshop?”

“Oh, thank Satan.” He was gone faster than a snake out of Hell.[viii]

Gabriel directed his gaze at Crowley. Aziraphale’s polite smile twitched.[ix]

Without breaking his polite stare from the archangel, Aziraphale reached over, very deliberately resting his hand over Crowley’s.[x] “Anything you say to me will be shared with him anyway, so you might as well go on and start explaining.”

For once in his very long life, Gabriel listened to reason. This was a battle he could not win, and so, he followed the advice and got on with it.

“The other angels are, ah, struggling a bit when it comes to fieldwork. There have been a few… accidents. It was suggested that this could be avoided if you returned to Heaven and gave them some training.”

“Can you not have another angel try? I’m sure one will prove capable -”

“The eight hundredth angel returned crying yesterday.”

“...Ah.”

“So. Yeah.”

“Hm. That is a conundrum.”

Aziraphale glanced towards Crowley, who was no doubt fit to burst with anxiety despite his cool and calm demeanor. He squeezed the demon’s hand gently, eyes softening as the serpent relaxed slightly.[xi]

In the end, it was a fairly simple decision.

“I’m afraid that I’ll have to discuss this with my friend here. You will have an answer in 2-3 business days. Good day, Gabriel.”

The archangel’s smile had reached max strain. “Aziraphale, come on -”

“I _said_ , good day. I do believe you should see someone about that head injury.”[xii]

As Gabriel exited, Crowley wondered when someone would tell the archangel about his drawn-on-with-a-sharpie mustache.[xiii]

After several blissful moments of silence, there was a knock against the entryway as Eric poked his head in. “Uh, hey, is it my turn or -? Cause like, I can totally wait out here if y’all need a minute -”

The serpent rolled his eyes[xiv] and waved the arguably disposable demon in.

Eric entered nervously, reclaiming his previous seat with caution. “So, uh, I don’t have any of my multiples up here right now, so if you could let me finish before discorporating me, that uh, yeah.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at Crowley. The redhead replied with the universal look for “Later” and nodded for the demonic messenger to continue. 

“Cool, so, first off. We found out about the uh plants, and filing cabinets, and lights, and everything really. So not, ya know, thanks, but, yeah.”

The eyebrow raise increased. Crowley pointedly did not look over at the angel and continued watching Eric.

“It turns out, that, uh, Hell maybe relied on you too much? For, like, everything. Even Lord Dagon’s office is having problems. And you’re the only one who knows how to fix anything. There are demons crying over mulch. No one knows what to do with the Hellhounds. One of my corporations found Duke Hastur sobbing and wasted by a half-full bucket when trying to fix the leaks. We were banned from Ikea. Twice.”

Crowley took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. Well. Damn. 

“I’ll get the bans removed. For the rest, we’ll get back to you in 2-3 business days.”

Eric nodded, well used to long delays wrapped in formal packaging. For Hell, 2-3 business days was practically lightning-fast service. With a nod from Crowley in dismissal, the demon was waving goodbye to the duo and off to return to Hell. Another member of the multitude was already sighing and heading off to inform Prince Beelzebub of the news.

He had just survived a meeting with two traitors and helped accidentally knock out archangel fucking Gabriel. 

Wicked.

* * *

[i] And not in the way that Eric was known for.

[ii] Which he had. Gabriel was unaware of this, however. 

[iii] Eric, for his part, was not sure what was happening. What he did know, was that it was _fucking amazing_.

The other Erics were gonna be so jealous. Sure, they were a collective and shared thoughts and memories, but it was HIS corporation that was speaking with _the_ Anthony J. Crowley, Serpent of Hell. 

Take that, Eric designation C74. Getting punched once by Prince Leviathan had nothing on this. 

[iv] They had always been best friends, but so had Aziraphale and denial

[v] Ah, good old misunderstandings. This rumor would be spread throughout Heaven and Hell both by the end of the day. At least fourteen supernatural beings spontaneously combusted from the abrupt 180-degree shift in perceptions. Several thousand angels - possibly those that had mocked Aziraphale the most and the loudest - signed up for therapy via a smug Michael. 

Crowley would one day find these angels, and then they would need therapy for a different reason.

[vi] As a rabbit demon, there was no chance for success from the start. He tried very hard, though.

[vii] And some married couples. 

[viii] Eric had seen a bat leave Hell. He had also seen Crowley leave Hell. He knew which was faster.

[ix] Elsewhere, both Michael and Dagon paused in what they were doing. They sensed… competition.

[x] For a completely unrelated reason, Crowley entirely stopped breathing and was on the verge of a heart attack.

[xi] Gabriel very politely restrained his exclamations of disgust.

[xii] Someone well versed in Mr. Fell’s customer-speak would be able to translate this statement to “Get the fuck out or I’ll smack you in the face with another book, _sir_.”

[xiii] Sharpie is miracle proof. There are of course human ways of removing it, but it would be doubtful than any of the angels would consider trying them. In other words, Gabriel was stuck with the inked facial hair addition for the next 1-2 weeks.

[xiv] For Crowley, rolling his eyes was more rolling his entire body, seeing as A) sunglasses and B) snake

* * *

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gabriel, Gabriel everywhere. Gratuitous use of footnotes and awkward silences.
> 
> Not very happy with this chapter, but this is like the fourth try so we’re just gonna roll with it. This is what happens when you don’t plan appropriately, kids. I did try to split this in half between Eric and Gabriel POVs and include some Nanny!Crowley interactions at the start, but it just wasn’t meant to be. Never fear, I do have planned scenes for Crowley and Eric in the future. 
> 
> The next chapter will hopefully be Eric and Gabriel reporting back to Heaven/Hell or Aziraphale and Crowley having their what-the-fuck-just-happened moment. 
> 
> Comments and kudos keep the author motivated and cause chaos for our favorite ineffable crew of idiots


	6. Reporting to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel and the no good, very bad day. Meanwhile, Michael claims vengeance, and Heaven begins its journey on a very long, very slippery slope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Holy Water post on Tumblr got noticed by WorseOmen’s blog (@worse0omens), who may or may not be (but definitely is) one of my favorite Good Omens authors.
> 
> I have been blessed.
> 
> (I held off the urge to make a senpai noticed me joke until the end of the note, and this is it. You’re welcome.)
> 
> Warnings at the end notes as usual <3

_“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”_

-Hamlet, Act 1 Scene 5, William Shakespeare

Such as, but not limited to: sharpie mustaches and prank-assisting angels

* * *

To say that Gabriel was a bit frustrated, perhaps even displeased, would be akin to saying that there was not enough room for both Jack and Rose in the movie Titanic.

In other words, a barefaced lie.[i]

Indeed, Gabriel was furious.[ii]

The Archangel made his way down the halls of heaven In all its empty corporate whiteness. It took forever and also no time at all[iii] to reach his office where the other archangels will waiting. 

“Michael!” The American presenting Angel cried out in greeting with his usual gratingly over-the-top manner. Michael’s smile was already straining as she turned to meet him, Sandalphon[iv] following suit and Uriel looking up distractedly from where they were reading Machiavelli.

Uriel's book fell to the floor. Michael's smile twitched. Sandalphon just stared.

Gabriel halted. 

“Is there something on my face?” he asked, (a phrase he had heard on Earth).

As one, Uriel and Sandalphon shook their heads, each a suspicious shade of red. Luckily for everyone except Gabriel, the Lord’s messenger had never been one to pick up on social cues.

In other words, Gabriel had just been blatantly lied to for the second time that day. 

Michael cleared her throat, her infamous smile trembling with something that Gabriel couldn't name.[v] “You have - ah - a little blood, just there,” she tapped the side of her nose before snapping her fingers sharply. “There. All better.” 

Sandalphon let out a high-pitched keening noise that he had certainly never made before, but which sounded rather like helium escaping from a balloon. Uriel’s hand rose to cover their mouth, their shoulders shaking silently.

Gabriel tilted his head in confusion, blinking at the three before him. “Uh, thanks? You all are being weird.”

Michael grinned very politely. “We are just eager to hear the news of how the meeting went.”

The American archangel nodded. It made sense that they would want to hear if a solution had been found to the little broken angel problem. The distant wailing was getting to even him.

“It was terrible. Aziraphale has completely joined forces with the demon Crowley and quite possibly the rest of Hell.”

Uriel hummed and nodded, reaching down to gingerly pick up their book without looking away from the disaster before them. Their movements were rather similar to one afraid to scare away a small animal.

Gabriel frowned. That was weird.

Uriel hadn't paid attention to a meeting since they almost got flambéed by Hellfire.

“First, Aziraphale slammed the door in my face. Literally, _in_ my face. He broke my nose in front of that demon of his and the representative from Hell - the rabbit looking goth from the execution? -”

His audience nodded in recognition.

“They must have known we were coming because the bookshop already had a trap prepared. The demons teamed up to attack me using Aziraphale’s books.[vi]”

Michael muttered something that may or may not have been “Lucky devils.” Her smile never faltered.

“I was… temporarily indisposed due to their attack.” The three Archangels nodded as though pieces of a sharpie-mustache shaped puzzle had begun to fall into place. “The negotiation was difficult, with Aziraphale being completely uncooperative. I have no idea what has gotten into him![vii] I'm certain he's been corrupted by Hell.”

Gabriel’s audience of three nodded again, continuing their impression of bleached bobbleheads. 

“In any case, it was otherwise a successful meeting! We should hear back from him in 3 to 5 business days.”

Michael wondered how much trouble she would get in if she summoned a book and smacked Gabriel in his Backpfeifengesicht. The answer was not much, seeing as she was the one in charge of discipline since Raguel had stormed out of heaven in a fit of Holy rage one day.[viii]

Still, she refrained.

Sandalphon was too busy staring at Gabriel’s face to golf clap for her patience.

“Gabriel,” she began, in a tone used by disappointed parents and teachers everywhere. “What day is it on Earth?”

The Lord’s messenger made a complicated expression with his face that somehow managed to convey confusion and arrogant uncaring. “Uh, I don't know. Who cares?”

“It's a Friday, Gabriel. Which means the next business day is in fact two days away. Monday. so the soonest we can hope to hear from Aziraphale is, according to you, Tuesday or Wednesday.”

Sandalphon cleared his throat and raised his hand to speak, a rather confusing gesture considering he had never undergone the soul-crushing rigor and structure of the education system. “Sir, have you ever looked at Aziraphale’s shop hours?”

Gabriel had not.

“They are… rather strange, sir. I don't think he's often in business at all.”

Michael closed her eyes and prayed for patience. “So in short, we have no idea when to expect a reply on a very time-sensitive issue that could lead to Hell gaining the upper hand. Do you at least know what the Hell representative wanted?”

“Uh, no. I left before they started talking about it. I mean, why should I? We’re Heaven, anything they can do we can do better anyway.”

Once Upon a Time, Michael would have left at this point in order to make a call to certain back channels. However, her preferred back channel was a mopped up puddle of sludge somewhere formerly known as Ligur. And she did not feel like dealing with Hastur’s sobbing today.

Instead, she pulled out a celestial phone, took a picture, made it her screensaver, and walked away. Uriel and Sandalphon quickly followed, walking backward so that they never had to take their eyes off of Gabriel.

Weird.

Shrugging, the remaining archangel went to take a seat and put the meeting entirely out of his mind. Before he could begin making his way through the stacks of pointless and frivolous paperwork, he caught his reflection in the polished white of his desk.

There, on Archangel fucking Gabriel’s face, was a black sharpie mustache complete with matching rainbow spectacles.[ix]

* * *

[i] Author did not know there was controversy over bold-faced vs bald-faced vs barefaced in terms of lying until Grammarly smacked a red underline on their “bold-faced,” which resulted in a distracted hour of reading articles on the topic. In the end, barefaced was chosen due to reportedly being A) more British, B) the oldest version, and C) used by Shakespeare after Tusler originally used the phrase. 

[ii] Not least because no one seemed to be able to look him in the face without either laughing or panicking and then running away. The bravest had taken photos and then left without a word. At least one had been an Eric in disguise. 

[iii] Heaven and Time had a tentative relationship at best, with Time having been created after Heaven, and also favoring a certain redhead over any of the heavenly hosts.

[iv] Voice to text is under the impression that “Sandalphon” is more accurately spelled “Sun Dolphins,” capitalization and all. Uriel has a 33/33/33 chance of being “Uriel” or “Ariel” or “you’re real.”

[v] This would be because it had been roughly 6,000 millennia since Michael had shown any genuine amusement that didn’t have a sinister edge to it. Same for most other angels in heaven. 

[vi] Voice to text thinks I said: “A sells books.” Now that is one ironic statement. Other v-2-txt names for Aziraphale include “a Duracell” and “misery fell.”

[vii] Options include, but are not limited to Gumption, a Backbone, Courage, a support network consisting of a demon named Crowley and several humans, and 6,000 years of retail bureaucracy. 

[viii] Gee whiz, I wonder why the angel of justice was angry.

[ix] Sometimes, it is possible to combine miracles. Such as snapping one’s fingers to remove blood while simultaneously adding sharpie designs to your sort-of boss’ face. (Credit for the spectacles goes to commenter Diana from the last chapter. An excellent idea, you were correct.)

* * *

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gabriel continues to be my heavenly vessel of satire
> 
> If my footnotes make you take roughly 20 taps of the back arrow to return to the main archive page  
> I am so sorry  
> I do not know how to fix this  
> I feel your pain  
> G@dspeed
> 
> One new tag has been added. The plot is slowly developing its way to existence. This fic may end up being much larger than originally anticipated. We shall see. 
> 
> I apologize for any typos and the probable lower quality of this chapter. Not only did it feature the Heaven crew (my nemesis) but my chronic pain + migraines have been acting up, meaning typing is a very painful bitch right now. In case you couldn’t tell from the footnotes, this means that yes, this chapter was pretty much entirely written with the voice to text function on Google docs. This is also why it’s taking me longer than usual to finish comment replies, though I will get there.
> 
> Projects/finals season is also coming up over the next two weeks, so updates and comment replies may be a bit more spaced out. May be. We’ll see how the procrastination tree falls.
> 
> Anyway, I hope ya’ll enjoyed the chapter. Comments and kudos make the author smile and cause a picture of Gabriel’s sharpied face to be published in the Celestial Times!


	7. Reporting to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eric is on a mission. Several missions, in fact. Luckily, there are more than enough of him to go around. 
> 
> Meanwhile, Beelzebub continues to contemplate a vacation to Majorca, and Dagon is just enjoying the ride. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have fic/etc recs, I am all ears. Also, apparently the Michael x Dagon ship name is Ineffable Administrators according to some Tumblr digging. Which is valid, but I’m still gonna use Angelfish too. 
> 
> Once again written with some voice to text, because I’ve spent the entire past week non-stop coding and doing homework and ow. This is doing wonders for my improv comedy skills, though. Also by the time I’m finishing this, I have since waged war with poison ivy and only lost a little bit.
> 
> More is said at the end, but sorry for the delay, yadda yadda. I am busy as fuck and sick as fuck and would like a nap.
> 
> Challenge of the Chapter: How much pinball-esque foreshadowing can one (2,000) Eric(s) cause, aka can you keep track of which Eric is Eric vs Eric vs Eric

_“Multitasking means screwing up several things at once.”_

-Dagon, thinking about the Legion known as Eric(s)

(-Anonymous)

* * *

As Eric left the bookshop, a different Eric began to shuffle off towards Beelzebub’s office.

Which was, frankly, completely bloody unfair. Eric gets to cause chaos with _the_ Crowley while Eric has to go meet with ze-of-the-Hellfire-smiting Prince Beelzebub. But such was the life of (an) Eric. 

To get to the Throne Room, however, one had to pass through many different hallways and deadends and abandoned rooms and probably a sobbing Hastur. All roads may lead to Hell, but that doesn’t mean they want you to get anywhere _quickly_.

One such to-be-bypassed room was the Copier Office, where few dare tread.[i] The copier office was home to many printers - some of which actually work - and was responsible for famous signs such as “Please Do Not Lick the Walls”[ii], “Give up now”, and the infamous “This Office Has Gone ___ Days without anyone saying ‘The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.’”[iii]

Eric saw the office, paused, backtracked, glanced around furtively for a donut wielding Dagon to rip his head off for entering and, upon seeing none, entered immediately.

He had a cult to make, after all. And everyone knows the way to a successful cult is paved with good marketing.[iv]

* * *

Beelzebub was having a bad day, as was typical for the secondary ruler of Hell, home of and proud sponsor for all bad things.[v]

Judging by the expression of the approaching intern, zir day was about to go from bad to Bad.[vi] Dagon wandered over to lurk closer[vii], terrifying the intern in the process and making him spill his coffee everywhere. 

Beelzebub would smack him with Hellfire for this offense, but honestly, ze was just as surprised by the sharp-toothed demon’s appearance as them. Ze didn’t know whether Dagon had been lurking there the whole time, or if they had been summoned by the promise of suffering.

Frankly, ze didn’t want to know.

The intern squeaked, reminding Beelzebub that ze, unfortunately, did have an audience and responsibilities and couldn’t spend the next decade half-asleep or sending greenhead flies after tourists on the beach. 

Right. Back to business, also known as stopping Dagon from giving the intern a heart attack before he could explain what the Heaven he was doing in zir throne room.

“Zzzpeak. Why have you interrupted me?”

The intern trembled, which was gratifying but not very informative. 

Ze waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Dagon passed zir a donut. Ze ate half of it and threw the remainder at the intern.

It hit him in the face.

Luckily - or unluckily, depending on your perspective and favored Hellish lingo - the smack of a fried yeast bun meeting his face seemed to remind the intern that he was indeed there for a reason, and that reason was not to cower before the Prince of Hell and purveyor of Gluttony. Nor to be a target for donut throwing.

“It’s - it’s the signs, your Darkness.”

Dagon and Beelzebub shared a side-eye. Well, that explanation said absolutely fuck-all. 

“What about the zignzz, idiot?”

“Oh! Yes, uh, right. Well, your Lord, there are… more of them. And…” the demon trailed off, muttering something too quietly for either of his listeners to hear. Dagon passed another donut to Beelzebub.

It once again smacked against the intern’s face before dropping to the floor.

“S-Sorry, Prince Beelzebub. Um, about the new posters… all of them are promoting the traitor of the demon Crowley and inviting others to join a cult in their name.”

With that, the demon was out of the room before Hellfire had a chance to finish sparking in Beelzebub’s palm. Damn, that was fast. Ze looked at Dagon, eyebrow raised as the abyssal demon clicked their stopwatch and marked something down on their ever-present clipboard.

“Bat demon, marked leaving at 13 mach speed. Still not nearly close to the traitor’s record.”

Damnit. 

Though, speaking of - 

The vertically challenged Prince of Hell sighed and shuffled off zir throne, dragging zirself over to where Hell’s intercom was set into the slimy wall. It hadn’t been used in centuries - not counting the Apocaflop, that was - and only Satan was allowed to use it.

Yeah. Fuck that shit. Satan got exclusive intercom rights when Satan got his ass out of bed.

As such, Beelzebub didn’t so much as hesitate before taking a deep breath and pressing the little green button to turn on the speaker.

**_“ERIC. GET YOUR FUCKING ASS IN HERE NOW.”_ **

Eric, while he did not have an intercom, did have several thousand bodies connected to a hivemind. Several thousand people yelling in perfect synchronization is indeed rather loud, and also several levels more terrifying than someone yelling over a set of static-filled speakers.

**“aLL oF uS?”**

**_“BRING THREE, YOU THRICE BLESSED JACKASS!”_ **

And that was that. Three Erics split off from their Mission to make their way to the Throne Room and quite possibly an early grave, Dagon ordered more donut delivery because it was going to be that kind of day, Beelzebub dug out the vodka, and Satan pouted a little bit harder from his castle basement.

Oh, and the millions of traumatized demons huddled further under their desks, hands clasped over ears and eyes wide as they waited for the screaming to continue.

The sooner Crowley returned, the better.

* * *

Inside the Throne Room of Hell, there stood three demons and two piles of ash. Somewhere in the distance, Hastur’s angry sobbing could be heard above the silence of the room. An Eric had just finished his report on his meeting with the traitors and encounter with the Archangel fucking Gabriel.

“Give me one bad reazzzon not to deztroy you for thizzzz.”

Eric pulled out his phone, opened the photo album, tapped several photos, and hit “send all.” 

Beelzebub’s phone buzzed.

Ze flicked open the message, stared, and cackled so loudly that even the deepest level of Hell didn’t need the intercom on to hear zir.[viii]

* * *

[i] except Dagon. Though one could argue that few dare tread there because it is Dagon’s territory to begin with.

[ii] You know Something Went Down when Hell had to use “Please” in their official signage. 

[iii] This could also be used as a rough calendar for “How long has it been since Crowley visited,” although the phrase did catch on after a while.

[iv] see: Disney, Harry Potter, political parties, nationalism, etc.

[v] with some exceptions, including but not limited to Nazis, whatever the fuck the Belgians were doing in the congo, racism, sexism, queerphobia, etc. Dare to be transphobic to zir face. Dare to do it. [One could argue that Heaven and Hell are incredibly racist, but only if said races are demons and angels, which, like human races, are actually from the same stock, entirely equal, so on, and so forth. But the author digresses.]

[vi] \- For those as confused by Hell’s lingo as the actual denizens of Hell, bad = good, Bad = oh shit fuck damnit (bad). 

[vii] re: eavesdrop

[viii] Rest in peace, Gabriel. You’re fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW ARE WE FEELING ABOUT THAT LOCKDOWN VIDEO, EVERYONE? Because I am (still) Not Okay. 
> 
> There is a lockdown fic in the works + some Good Omens Celebration WIPs happening, but I am taking Maymester and Summer 1+2 courses, so, yes. Everything is taking forever because I am busy as Hell on a Tuesday and hating mathematics with all the passion of a donut-less Dagon. As usual, not very content with this chapter - especially with it’s length - but sometimes you just have to force yourself to write and go with what you have, ya know?
> 
> Anyway. If you want to scream at me about Good Omens/Lockdown video/WIPs/anything, come say hi! <3   
> Tumblr: @ryuu-scribbles (art/writing), @ineffablyryuu (good omens)  
> Instagram: @ryuu_of_rome  
> Twitter: @RyuuSiren7
> 
> (Also I would pay in fanfiction and appreciation if anyone wanted to draw a hipster!Michael wearing rainbow spectacles of her own while the Archangels are ?????!!!!?!?!?! in the background.)


	8. So. That Happened.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley.exe stops working for a bit, tea is had, and devious plans are made. Our condolences to the ethereal and occult bodies of Heaven and Hell. But also, they kinda had it coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. My health and my state are both dumpster fires. Gotta love living in the new global epicenter of a pandemic.
> 
> Challenge of the Chapter: How many times can I subtly compare Crowley to an Internet Explorer browser
> 
> WARNINGS in the endnotes, y’all know the drill

_“There is no sin except stupidity.”_

(-Oscar Wilde)

“Yeah, and everyone is sinning. Including Heaven, angel.”

“Yes, well… yes.”

“...Think we should let Beelzebub know that we found the eighth deadly sin and his name is Gabriel?”

_“Crowley!”_

* * *

** Earth, The Bookshop, Immediately after a Legion and Archangel’s departure **

In the backroom of a cozy little bookshop in Soho, an angel and a demon were seated, side-by-side, leg pressed against leg, and hand-in-hand on a sofa.[i] The door to the shop had long since slammed shut after a different demon’s exit some minutes prior, but the remaining duo didn’t feel much like moving.

Indeed, they were still reeling from the sudden intrusion of their former sides after a year of freedom. And also from the simple acts of Aziraphale: A) interrupting and breaking the nose of Archangel fucking Gabriel, and B) reaching out and taking Crowley’s hand _in front of the representatives of Heaven and Hell._

Now, this was certainly not the first time the two had touched. Far from it, really, especially after six millennia of knowing someone. They had even held hands in front of Satan himself, in all his terrible glory.

However, there was one common factor in most of these scenarios - more often than not, Crowley was the one who had to reach out first. The demon didn’t mind having to do so[ii], but patterns, once set, didn’t often change.[iii]

As such, the redheaded tempter and cause of the Original Sin was still silently buffering by the time Aziraphale had finished analyzing _whatever the fuck all of this was_ and began to speak. 

“So. That just happened.”

Crowley, ever helpful, replied with a simple _“Nngyuk.”_

Aziraphale nodded encouragingly. “Indeed.” 

The angel sighed, patting Crowley’s knee before moving to stand and perhaps get some more tea. However, he found his plans temporarily stymied as a serpent near twice as long as he was tall decided to wrap itself around him. 

“Really, my dear?” 

Based on the sullen hissing by his ear, the answer was yes, really. 

Aziraphale merely sighed again before smiling fondly and patting the serpent’s head. He puttered into the small kitchen space in the back of his bookshop, putting the kettle back on and retrieving the black and white-winged mugs that he had avoided using with their… guests… present. 

Crowley perked up from where his head was resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder, slithering down further to flick his tongue above the various tea options still out, eventually nudging a box of Lapsang Souchong with his snout and giving Aziraphale a remarkable rendition of puppy eyes.[iv]

The box of tea was opened and the withered black leaves scooped into the little tea infusers the duo had picked up some time ago, a pointed metal mesh star for Crowley and a charming little glass book for Aziraphale.[v] The whistling of the kettle had Crowley slithering off of him and returning to human-shaped form, a smattering of scales remaining around his collarbones and the tips of his ears a burning red.

Aziraphale filled their cups and settled them to perfect temperature with a quick miracle, hiding his grin as he took a sip. 

Crowley was ever so adorable when he blushed.

By the time the scales and pink flush had faded, the two had made their way to the seldom-used upstairs flat and were settled across from each other in their favored seats. The angel tucked himself into his cozy armchair before raising an eyebrow at Crowley. The redhead fidgeted from his perch on the arm of the sofa.

“So. That happened.”

Aziraphale’s lips quirked up. “Indeed it did, my dear. Feel up to sharing your thoughts about it, yet?”

“Nnnggggk… besides ‘what in the blazes?’ No, not really, angel.” The demon finally relaxed, letting himself slip sideways to sprawl across the soft cushions of the couch instead of hovering like a demented gargoyle. 

“Mmhm.” A pair of thinly wired glasses were plucked from the side table and settled onto Aziraphale’s face in order to get him into the ‘proper thinking mode.’ “Well, I suppose the first thing we should discuss is whether or not it’s a trap.

“Ah, well… it’s probably not. For Hell at least.”

Aziraphale gave him a Look.

The human-shaped serpent shimmied and shrugged. “Keep things running smooth, keep the bosses happy, keep the bosses off my back and looking the other way. Only, I suppose they might not actually know what to do now that I’m not around.”

“Well, you do have a way of making yourself indispensable, my dear.” Crowley preened.

“As for Heaven… I confess that I would be more suspicious if it had been Michael or Uriel. Gabriel truly doesn’t have much talent in deception, and I can only imagine what damage coming to me for aid would do to his ego.”

“Maybe shrink it from ginormous to humongous?” 

Despite giving the demon his best stern look, both beings knew that the angel was amused. “I wouldn’t quite say that, my dear. Perhaps simply from all of Afroeurasia to most of Afroeurasia.”

“So, what, minus an archipelago or two?”

“Oh, not nearly so much, my dear. A single, uninhabited island would do. One of the smaller ones, I should think.” Cackling laughter burst free from Crowley. Aziraphale didn’t even bother to hide his smirk behind his mug this time. 

Eventually, the amusement faded away, leaving the two in comfortable silence. Not that it stayed as such for long.

Crowley began fidgeting first, a long and thin finger tracing the rim of his cup as those lovely yellow eyes seemed to stare somewhere far away.

“What are you thinking of, my dear?”

The slitted glance flickered to Aziraphale and then back into the distance. It was several long minutes before he spoke, the words soft but dark. “I don’t… want you to go. It’s your decision, ‘course it is, but. Yeah. You weren’t up there that last time, and thank Someone for that, but it… wasn’t good. Even if it’s _not_ a trap, I still don’t want you to have to deal with that…”

“Oh, my boy…” The angel reached out, strong and careful fingers capturing Crowley’s tenderly as those shifting blue eyes met yellow. “You were so brave to go, my dear, just as you are now, to willingly face Hell but worry over little old me and Heaven instead of yourself.”

Crowley made a very Crowley-esque noise.

“Truly though, I don’t think we have much to fear on this front. Heaven has never exactly been… pleasant… but I do have six thousand years of experience in dealing with them. Besides that, they _do_ still seem to believe that we are quite a step beyond immortal.”

The demon sighed, resting his face against the soft skin of their clasped hands before pulling back with a shocked blink, a smirk beginning to curl around the edges of his fangs. Aziraphale tilted his head before humming, feeling a sly smile of his own form. 

“My, it does seem as though you’ve just had a rather excellent idea, my dear. Care to share with the class?”

“Well, it’s as you said - they _do_ believe that they can’t hurt us. On top of that, they’ve just given us free rein.”

“Oh, _oh_ , surely you aren’t thinking of -”

“Damn right I am, angel. You in?”

“Well… I suppose, yes. Always, my dear.”

“Then let’s break out the wine and get to planning. I think this calls for a Wahoo!”[vi]

* * *

[i] Once again for a completely separate reason, Crowley’s heart was doing some very strange and probably unhealthy things.

[ii] He didn’t mind it in the way a man dying of thirst didn’t mind having to walk seven miles uphill in the sand dunes of the Sahara for water. Which is to say, he wanted it more than anything, but he was _so tired_ and really would have appreciated someone else just passing him a water bottle, to keep with the metaphor.

[iii] Not for Aziraphale, at least.

[iv] Especially for a snake that technically shouldn’t have any ability to emote, eye-wise, at least. What with the lack of eyebrows and eyelids, and all. 

[v] They also had matching silica gel unicorn ones, but both would only admit such under pain of the other’s death.

[vi] Rip to Heaven and Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: unnecessary amount of tea, emotions are experienced, mention of Gabriel's ego, ineffable idiots being their ineffably idiotic selves, there is a wahoo in the most literal definition 
> 
> AN: If you ever want to taste smoke and have your home smell like it’s on fire, Lapsang Souchong is the tea for you. This chapter was also entirely written while listening to Woodkid and Hozier. If you enjoy the fae vibes of Hozier but want something that goes a little harder, Woodkid is the musical group you need.
> 
> Bit of a boring filler chapter but a necessary one. Comments and kudos make the author smile and help encourage these two ineffable idiots to get their acts together.
> 
> Come say hi! <3   
> Tumblr: @ryuu-scribbles (art/writing), @ineffably-ryuu (good omens)  
> Instagram: @ryuu_of_rome  
> Twitter: @RyuuSiren7


	9. Don't Stop Me Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beelzebub thought ze had a general idea of what to expect from the Traitor. Beelzebub was wrong. Crowley thought that surely Hell couldn’t have been that bad without him. Crowley was also wrong.
> 
> Oh well, that’s not Dagon’s problem. Nah, for them, it’s a dinner of donuts complete with a show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have Crowley, in his natural habitat. No, not Hell. Chaos. Sheer, unbridled Chaos. 
> 
> Warnings at the end notes~

_“Tonight, I'm gonna have myself a real good time_

_I feel alive and the world I'll turn it inside out, yeah”_

-”Don’t Stop Me Now,” Queen

The first song played over Hell’s new surround sound system, just as soon as Crowley finishes installing it. Their raves have never been better. Or, well, Worse.

* * *

Based on Eric’s report, Beelzebub thought that ze had a pretty bad[i] understanding of how the Traitor’s dubious return would work. Ze at least thought that Hell had a bit more time to prepare for his chaotic evil presence.

Perhaps ze should have paid more attention to the part where the Traitor knocked out and then vandalized the corporation of a fucking Archangel. Perhaps that could have been a sign that things do not tend to go smoothly when the demon Crowley is involved.

Unfortunately for the Prince of Hell, zir first warning that Trouble Was Afoot was the presence of Crowley himself, using zir throne as a seat for roughly ten boxes of donuts.

The gourmet kind _and_ Krispy Kreme. 

And there, munching away, were both the Original Tempter and Lord of the Files.

That thrice-blessed traitor had _BRIBED ZIR RIGHT HAND._

Judging by his smirk and cheeky little wave, Crowley knew exactly what he’d done, and had no regrets in essentially paying his way to political immunity through the powers of fried dough.

Asshole.

“Crowley. We weren’t expecting your rezponzzze for another week, at leazzzt.”

The redhead shrugged, raising an annoyingly well-trimmed eyebrow over the rim of his ever-present sunglasses. “I _did_ say two to three business days, didn’t I?” 

Beelzebub’s expression was flatter than a pancake that had been run over by a steamroller. Multiple times. Two to three business days _never_ actually meant two to three business days, _everyone_ knew that.[ii]

Naturally, the demon threw off the glowering disapproval of his ex-boss with the experience of someone who had been in love with a very prickly, very righteous angel for six millennia. 

“Well, you know me. Punctual as ever.”

Dagon choked on their donut in the background. 

“Full of bullshit azzzz ever, Crowley.”

The tempter gave one of his slithery shrugs before strutting off, moving his hips in the way that suggested both a misplaced hip bone and also severe back pain. Beelzebub grabbed zir tequila before following him out of the office.

Left alone, Dagon hesitated, glancing between the door and their stack of donuts. What to choose… What to choose…

They grabbed the top two boxes and stalked after the departing duo. They would have their chaos, and eat it, too.[iii]

As the office door swung shut, a panel in the wall opened, and out stepped a red-skinned man in sweatpants with two spiraling horns on his head. Without wasting a moment, he snatched a box of the Krispy Kremes and then vanished back to one of his palace’s secret passageways.

Someone was going to pay when Dagon noticed they were missing, but it sure as Hell wasn’t going to be Satan.

* * *

Elsewhere in the bowels of Hell, where demonic royalty hadn’t quite lowered themselves to donut thievery just yet, Crowley was beginning his year-late inspection of the grounds, bads, and disservices of Hell.

And damn did it need some help.

First off - it was raining. It was actually raining indoors, there were so many leaks in the ceiling. And the leaks had affected the wiring, which in turn led to half of the corridors being completely pitch black.

Yeah, fuck that shit. Demonic snake senses or no, Crowley was not messing with areas that were so clearly Dagon territory.[iv]

Luckily - or perhaps unluckily - the trio found their way blocked before Crowley could well and truly work himself into a rant of epic proportions. However, the roadblock simply led to other problems, which really and actually were Crowley’s fault this time.

Normally, this wouldn’t be the case, but seeing as the roadblock’s name was Hastur and was currently trying to outcompete the leaking ceiling in terms of waterworks, well. 

The redhead simply stared for a moment, his gaze traveling blankly to and fro the slouched over mess of an amphibian demon.

“Wot happened to him?”

Even Hastur paused to give him a Very Unimpressed stare. Dagon and Beelzebub shared a glance, the abyssal demon cramming a donut into their mouth and thus effectively leaving their boss to the fate of explaining.

“He’s been like this ever since Almostgeddon. After Ligur, the whole… Holy Water thing… and leaky ceilings just about did him in.”

Crowley nodded, forcing the little worm of guilt deep, deep down. Hastur and Ligur were assholes, anyway. All they ever did was hurt people and enjoy it. Nearly as bad as humans, really. Honestly, he should’ve just gotten rid of Hastur too with some spare Holy Water after trapping him in the answering machine and spare the whole problem entirely.

Hastur sobbed a little louder.

The redhead sighed, groaned, “Ngk”ed, and whipped out his cellphone to make a call.

“Hey, Adam, kid, what’s up?” His audience’s heads swiveled towards him faster than animatronics in a horror game. “Yeah yeah, no problems on this end. Sorry for interrupting your Revolution, but got a quick favor to ask ya. No, no, you don’t need to do anything but think back for me, alright? Cool, thanks, kid.

So, remember Armagefailed? ‘Course you do. Well, thinking back - there was a demon killed by Holy Water that day. No, not really a friend of mine, just a co-worker. And, well, I was thinking - it’d make sense if that demon was resurrected too, wouldn’t it?”

Hastur gasped, losing his grip on the bucket he’d been leaning on and smacking face-first into the floor.

“Yeah I know the whole Holy Water thing tends to be pretty permanent, but so does death and burning things to ash and whatnot. Yeah, right? It would only make sense that Ligur was restored, too.”

And just like that, a fourth figure popped into existence in the dingy Hell hallway, complete with a fifth in the form of a chameleon on his head. Said figure was also immediately tackled to the ground by a sobbing Hastur. Beelzebub and Dagon took a step back.

“Thanks, Adam. There’s a lad. Yeah, that’s all I wanted to talk about. Course I’m still gonna come see your play on Saturday, who the Hell do you think I am, huh? And yes, of course, Aziraphale will be there. And he’ll bring his cookies. Yup, snickerdoodle and chocolate chip both this time. Mmhm. Alright. Later.”

The black phone clicked off and was deposited into a pocket much too small for it to fit in without a miracle. Crowley, ever the dramatic bastard, bowed complete with jazz hands before straightening with a hand on his hip. “There, all better, yeah? But I’d stay off Earth if I were you two. Adam doesn’t like demons or angels[v] messing with his people, and what Adam giveth, Adam can taketh away…”

Hastur and Ligur nodded so quickly that bobbleheads around the galaxy felt a sudden surge of jealousy. Dagon nodded as well, making several mental adjustments to Crowley’s folder for later. Beelzebub, meanwhile, was chugging Casamigos Blanco tequila like it was the American 1920s and someone had just put a prohibition on alcohol. 

Hidden in the shadows of a lightless hallway, Eric’s eyes widened as his phone recorded the scene before him. 

The Cult of Crowley would be glorious indeed. 

* * *

Up in Heaven, Aziraphale despaired over the crowd of confused-as-fuck angels and tried to ignore that Michael’s tea was becoming less and less tea and more and more whiskey. 

Distantly, he wondered how Crowley was doing, and if he was having as terrible a time as him.

* * *

[i] re: good, translated for Hellish lingo

[ii] Especially Crowley, since it was his g@ddamn idea in the first place. Ze’s on to you, jackass.

[iii] Or eat the donuts, at least.

[iv] Things hid in the abyss. Things with sharp teeth. And things were only Dagon 90% of the time.

[v] Beelzebub and Dagon shared a look and wondered what that might imply about Crowley and Aziraphale themselves. Beelzebub then pushed that thought very far away and decided to ignore it with all the might of someone who dealt with Eric, Satan, and the general denizens of Hell on a daily basis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS for Dagon being Dagon, casual violence and language, the general occult entities of Hell, abuse of baked goods, and a brief alcohol mention at the end
> 
> Ya’ll have no idea what’s coming but Lord have I been waiting for this. Also, have I mentioned how much I love my demons here? Because I do. And Beelzebub POV is a beautiful, blissfully easy to write thing. The upcoming Heaven chapter… not so much. Also, I know some of ya’ll like the shorter chapters, but does anyone want longer? Because I probably could, now that the pace is picking up, but… yeah. I’m used to cutting things short.
> 
> Comments fill the author’s cold dead heart with warmth and joy, and also set up Dagon and Michael on a date with alcohol-themed donuts and terrifying smiles.
> 
> Come say hi! <3  
> Tumblr: @ryuu-scribbles (art/writing), @ineffably-ryuu (good omens)  
> Instagram: @ryuu_of_rome  
> Twitter: @RyuuSiren7


	10. Climbing Every Mountain (causes tons of pollution)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has had a long six thousand years of angelic service, but now has been put in the singularly beautiful position of being both able and allowed to criticize the management.
> 
> Gabriel has some regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooooo everyone!!!! May I just take a moment to say how pleased I am over the comments from the past couple of chapters? I am admittedly especially glad that everyone is enjoying Satan’s cameos and suffering as much as I am. 
> 
> Also, if you’re wondering what I’m referring to in the title, look up the damage that tourism has done to Mt. Everest and the communities who live around it. What is good for the economy may not be good for the health of the people and the planet, but. Money. Life. Capitalism. Etc. Mix that with Sound of Music lyrics and ta-da. Anyway.
> 
> WARNINGS at the endnotes

_“I work in customer service. It means I’ll have a smile on my face while I ruin your life.”_

-Anonymous

Aziraphale has had it up to _Here_ , and _Here_ is higher than even Heaven can manage.

* * *

Several hours after Crowley had left the bookshop to saunter vaguely downward, Aziraphale remained, curled up on his sofa with a blanket around him and a cup of cocoa in his hands. 

The angel envied Crowley at times, truly. Envied him for his courage, his compassion, his reckless devil-may-care air, and way of blazing through life. For thousands of years, Aziraphale had considered it just another reason on a long list of why he was a Bad Angel. He knew better now, of course - knew that it made him a bit more human, which can be the best thing to be - but still. 

It had taken him thousands and thousands of years to even _start_ overcoming those prejudiced, propaganda-based views, and now he was meant to walk right into the source of that irrational hatred and somehow _fix_ their problems.

He, Aziraphale, who had been informed for years that his service was quite appreciated but ultimately a failure.

Another sigh and the angel slumped further in his seat, eyes trailing over the titles of the many books lining the walls around him. So much knowledge, so much beautiful emotions and thoughts, all of which were discarded as useless by Heaven.

Discarded as Crowley had been.

The bookshop owner paused, thought for another moment, and then wiggled in a way that would have sent Crowley into cardiac arrest had the demon been there to witness it.[i]

When in doubt, there was always one question Aziraphale could turn to for answers - “What would Crowley do?”[ii]

* * *

Gabriel was quite certain that Heaven was well-prepared for Aziraphale’s return. He _had_ known the other angel for six thousand years, after all, and was still quite certain that he was nothing but an easily manipulated pushover.[iii]

Gabriel, as usual, was Incorrect. 

Aziraphale had arrived two days later than expected[iv], a friendly delivery _human_ named Leslie with him, both their arms full of books and office plants and kitten-related motivational posters.[v]

Suddenly, gone were the days of the sleek and modern and _blindingly white_ Heaven that had always looked a bit like someone crossed a Fortune 500 company with a mental asylum. Tacky posters, brilliantly done but occasionally questionable tapestries, plush fuzzy rugs that seemed to have escaped straight from the 1980s, and an abundance of green crawled across every surface of Heaven.

Stiff-backed and uncomfortable “modern design” chairs were replaced with comfy sofas and rocking chairs. Somehow those fancy rising desks were installed when Gabriel had his back turned for just _five minutes, he swears._

He was ninety-percent certain someone had started a garden in one of the spare meeting rooms. Or maybe an apple orchard. Or maybe both...

In the end, it looked a bit like a gay bookshop owner had been released after inhaling roughly fifty different interior design books from various eras.

Which. 

Well.

Was not _inaccurate._

They had even _painted the walls_ of Michael’s long-awaited meditation room. Painted the walls! In Heaven! They were _blue_ now, a soft and calming shade accented with beige and a dark-colored carpet just right to sink your feet into while remaining in miraculous condition.[vi]

And through it all there was Aziraphale, pleasantly polite smile in place, unrelentingly cheery and with a blood-curdling familiar book in hand at all times.[vii]

If Gabriel didn’t know better, he’d claim to be in Hell.[viii]

* * *

Aziraphale, meanwhile, had not stopped internally screaming at any point in the past two days. Ish. There was no point in measuring time in Heaven, but he believed it to have been about two days.

Could he please be done now?

The principality held in a tremulous sigh, feeling the edges of his smile pinch just slightly before resuming its remarkably pleasant and ever-present state.[ix]

He had no fucking idea what he was doing.

The first idea had been a complete remodeling, partly because he had always hated the endless whiteness of Heaven, partly because he wanted to see if he could give Gabriel an aneurysm, and partly because it seemed a very Crowley-esque thing to do. The first step to dismantling a system in power was to change the system’s presence, right?

He did think it had helped, really. The angels were starting to learn responsibility by having to take care of the new office plants and he had found more than one nuzzling into or rolling around wings-out on the fluffier ones before realizing they’d been caught and fleeing the scene.

At least it no longer felt so… clinical. 

Heaven was meant to be about _feelings_ , and the sooner the angels began to accept their own, the sooner Aziraphale could complete this disaster of a job and hurry home to a warm cup of cocoa and a favorite book.

Uriel walked by, silent as ever but surprisingly less condescending than usual, depositing another stack of papers on Aziraphale’s temporary desk before disappearing into the rainbow-tainted void.

Remarkably like a shark appearing from and returning to the deep, he thought.

Pushing that thought far, _far_ away, Aziraphale returned to work, signing off on or denying certain approval requests and taking notes of the few suggestions he had received. 

A remarkable number of notes just had “ ** _CARS?!?!?!?!_** ” shakily written on them in bold and black ink.

How the mighty had fallen. Or. Well. Crashed.

With a sigh, he finished circling the dates on his calendar before standing, tacking the notice sheet on Heaven’s newly established bulletin board. Therapy sessions would begin every Thursday, led by Michael and a human psychologist who had died just a year ago and certainly did _not_ believe in Freudian psychology, and Aziraphale’s human-angel interaction lectures would be on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays with technology lessons on every Tuesday and Thursdays. Office hours would be 9 to 5 on the weekends.

As another sheepish angel approached him with a stack of papers rivaling the height of Gabriel’s ego, Aziraphale distantly wondered what he’d done to deserve this. And whether he needed a Ph.D. to qualify for this role Heaven had shoved on him.

He probably did.

Damn.

* * *

From her little corner of Heaven, safe from the chaos around her, Michael was distracted by the once-familiar chime of her phone. A chime she had not heard since the-little-Armageddon-that-couldn’t[x] a year before from a phone she had kept for… purely practical purposes.[xi]

She opened the text message in several quick taps. 

Her corporation’s incredibly inconvenient and unnecessary breath got stuck in her throat. 

The attached picture was a bit blurry, the lighting poor and the holder’s hand likely in motion when it was taken. There was the Traitor Demon, flashy as ever and holding up a victory sign as he snapped the photo. In the background were Dagon and Beelzebub, both munching their way through a stack of donuts. There may have been a flash of red or perhaps a black silhouette with horns in the distance, but it was too hard to see. 

And there in the center, a bucket discarded by their feet and both figures fairly drenched, sat Hastur and Ligur, puffy-eyed and red-faced but grinning and _alive_. 

The text caption was simple and to the point: “Missed us?”

Michael smiled.[xii]

* * *

[i] Again

[ii] Considering Crowley and Jesus had been rather close at one point (though the demon would deny it), Aziraphale thought it fairly safe to assume that the Son would approve.

[iii] For some reason, Michael looked increasingly dead inside whenever he said as much. Sandalphon and Uriel would just eye the still-present sharpie markings silently.

[iv] A genuine miracle, as far as those familiar with his business practices were concerned.

[v] They _would_ have questioned Leslie’s presence more, but the sudden appearance of Death making classic “I’m watching you” motions in the background dissuaded any further questioning quite sufficiently. They Did Not Want To Know.

[vi] Michael and Uriel may have exerted some input into this room’s design. Sandalphon tried to but was summarily denied and sent off to read some Mary Shelley instead.

[vii] re: The Buggre All This Bible, aka that which knocked Gabriel for a loop and led him to a sharpie-marked doom.

[viii] If he saw even one person try to lick the walls, he was fucking Out of There.

[ix] Michael was reluctantly impressed. More importantly, she was fairly certain she had found the source of the Competition.

[x] if the author is so determined to use a different name for the Armageddon/Apocalypse every time, the author should consider making a list of used terms (smh)

[xi] Sentimental reasons

[xii] That it _wasn’t_ pointedly sharp and vaguely evil made it all the more terrifying, according to key witnesses. But Michael was happy, as she deserved to be. Jackassness and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Gabriel continues to exist in his usual American fucking Archangel fashion, Aziraphale finds 80s decor, there is an Actual Emotional Moment, the plot slowly begins to emerge from its chrysalis, etc
> 
> How would ya’ll feel about some interludes? I have some thoughts on a Dagon chapter, for example, possibly featuring Satan, along with Michael and the mysterious figure from the angels-in-jail scene, who Some People happen to believe is Satan-. But also maybe some soft things, like a Michael and Ligur reunion? Or just the different couples going on dates?
> 
> Also - what do ya’ll think should happen with Beelzebub? I’ve been considering Ineffable Bureaucracy, because I do like the ship, but perhaps not with… this… Gabriel… so - ineffable bureaucracy? Beelzebub and Uriel, perhaps? Polyamory? Rock that aromantic vibe? Just chill? 
> 
> Anyway, comments and kudos fill the author with motivation and love, help the ships set sail, and steal Michael’s phone to type “Yes, of course, you idiots,” to which the demons may or may not commence crying (again). 
> 
> We’re either gonna interlude or back to Hell next chapter, though I admit that I may have been sucked back into the Harry Potter fandom (I know, ugh, but… Tomarry) and finally given in to the cursed lure of Hazbin Hotel + school has restarted so who knows when the update will happen.


	11. Down in the Deep Blue Sea (of Hell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dagon plots and Angel 427 does a kickflip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome to an Interlude from Hell in more ways than one.
> 
> This is essentially a glorified announcement chapter. My apologies.

_“Baby shark, doo, doo, Mommy shark, doo, doo, Daddy shark, doo, doo, Dagon shark, SHIT FUCK RUN AWAY (doo, doo),_ _It's the end, doo, doo”_

-“Baby Shark” by Pinkfong, edited arrangement by yours truly

* * *

Hell might be in its own handbasket but Dagon, oh Dagon was thriving.[i]

They had always taken rather swimmingly[ii] to Hell in its messy entirety but this… this was a sea of unbridled chaos and disaster.

If it hadn’t been fucking up their files, they might have even said it was the most horrifying thing they’d ever seen.[iii]

To be honest, they’d never had much respect for any of their fellow demons, Satan and Crowley included and Beelzebub excluded. The big man in red never did jackshit, and Dagon should know, seeing as it was them and Beelzebub who had to do all his paperwork.

Crowley could be fun, sure, but his tastes were a bit too tame for them. Too much flash and not enough concussive force. He did always bring back the best treats from the surface, though.

Like donuts.

Excellent, excellent donuts.[iv]

Hastur and Ligur were more fun, but only whenever the two could stop mooning and doing gross shit like killing things for each other and - eugh - holding hands. And after Ligur’s now-temporary death, the only time they’d approach Hastur was to beat him with a mop for crying all over their perfectly good hallway.

Seriously. He had cried enough to mess up their perfectly adjusted salinity levels and that was inexcusable.

And honestly, beyond that? Beyond them? The rest of Hell might as well burn for all they cared. (And burn it did.)

Now suddenly, things were _happening_. Eric, who had always reminded them of a beaten bunny, had suddenly begun growing fangs. Sneaking around Earth _and_ Hell, stealing from their copy room, knocking out an archangel, and helping them set up the repeated prank with Hastur as their target?

Their little Bunnicula was growing up so fast.

But that was the rub, wasn’t it? They were growing, changing, things were happening and for once in their very long life, Dagon wasn’t bored as… well, Hell. They knew Beelzebub agreed, even if their poorly adjusted fishbait[v] friend was reverting to alcoholism as a coping method.

However… that didn’t mean they were going _soft_.

Oh no, “soft” never should, would, or could be applied to Dagon.

When someone crossed them, they were going to _pay_. Especially if said someone had _stolen their donuts_.

Somewhere in Hell, Satan shivered as cold crawled down his spine and felt the fleeting touch of combat boots tap-dancing on his grave.

* * *

Crowley paused. Beelzebub stopped. They spared a moment to look around.

Dagon was nowhere to be seen, and the shadows in the corner were growing.

Beelzebub passed Crowley a bottle of whiskey.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

_**MEANWHILE, IN HEAVEN** _

* * *

Angel designation 427 had lived a long and vaguely fulfilling life. He had never been to Earth, or had a name, and hadn’t ever quite understood all the fuss about Hell and the Great War, though he was very good at going along with the crowd.

He was also very good at doing tricks on his hoverboard, not that he could ever let a supervisor see.[vi]

Every day for Angel 427 was much the same. He sat at a desk and whiled away the hours pushing buttons upon command. He didn’t know what use the buttons had - if they had a use - but it was a job and thus was his life.

He did not ask questions. He did not wonder. He most certainly did not doodle pictures of things he had only heard of on his notepads and ideas for made-up stories in the margins of his notebooks.

He also most certainly had never gone on babynames.com and looked up some for himself.[vii]

And that had been his life for six thousand years. Six thousand years of sitting at a white desk in a white room pushing the white buttons on a white computer. 

Six. Thousand. Years.

And then a year ago, he had lined up with everyone else to go to war and figured well, it had been a good run. But the war didn’t happen and Angel 427 didn’t die. 

A little bit after that, the first angel had run by screaming about bright lights and cars and using words that were certainly not approved in the user manual. 

Somehow, Angel 427 had avoided being one of the 700-and-some sent out on fieldwork. His time had been coming, he was sure of it. But divine intervention had indeed arrived to save him, just not quite from Her on High.

No, it came in the form of a chubby and near-maliciously polite Principality named Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who had asked him for his name and, when told that Angel 427 was just Angel 427, was very kind and patient with him and encouraged him to find his own name. Who told him that S names were very good, even if Sandalphon existed. (Though maybe don’t pick that one.)

Aziraphale, who had decided that Angel 427 would be among the group specially trained for fieldwork and earth management. Who had given him a chance, who showed him how to do something other than push buttons.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of this new and rapidly changing Heaven, but as he completed a kickflip with Aziraphale’s polite clapping in the background and a whoop of excitement from Angel 432, he rather thought he might like it.

* * *

Gabriel did not like it. At all. 

Fortunately, no one cared much about what Gabriel did and did not like at this point.

Uriel continued their game of solitaire in peace, Bluetooth earbuds in, gloriously ignorant to the groaning and sharpie marked archangel beside her.

It was a good day.

* * *

[i] An exception to the rule, as per usual.

[ii] Heh, cause they’re a leviathan eldritch abomination from the deep that swims? Get it? Yeah, I know, showing myself out now.

[iii] Hell lingo translation: replace horrifying with beautiful

[iv] Crowley and Dagon had actually tried baking donuts together once. It was never discussed again.

[v] flies = fishbait

[vi] He and several other nameless lower-ranking angels had converted one of the old file rooms into a sort of trick park for their hoverboards. Angel designation 432 was very good with xirs and had very pretty hair. 

[vii] He was rather partial to S names, he had found. Sam, Steve, Stanley… he was still deciding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Dagon being Dagon, mentioned death as per the audiobook canon
> 
> AN: Here’s the lowdown folks: I’m broke as fuck and sicker than Crowley’s shades. I’m just… tired. So yeah, a very short chapter to tide ya’ll over while I get things sorted out. Not really what I was intending to do with the interludes, but, yeah. Probably back with Crowley for the next chapter, then Aziraphale, and then a Satan and/or Dagon interlude. Or maybe an Eric one? We’ll see where the winds take us.
> 
> Also if you catch the reference hinted at in footnote #7/with Employee 427, know that I love you.
> 
> ANYWAY! While I’m not gonna make any confirmed final say yet, the shipping/pairing is currently looking like this:  
> -Angelfish/Ineffable Administrators (Michael x Dagon)  
> -Maggot Husbands (Ligur x Hastur)  
> -Michael/Ligur/Hastur bromance/QPP  
> -Aromantic Beelzebub and Asexual Uriel QPP (queer-platonic-partners)  
> -AroAce Gabriel  
> -Eric ???  
> -Ineffable Husbands (duh)
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the input and comments! 
> 
> (Also as a side note, I’m sure most of you know this but I’ve had some people bringing it up to me lately and being confused about it, so: Aromantic and Asexuality do not necessarily go hand in hand. You can be Ace and still want a romantic relationship and be Aro and still want sex, and also a reminder that both are spectrums, etc. 
> 
> Also please note that plants do not produce asexually please I’ve had like ten people use that joke on me in the past month and it’s getting old. A) kinda rude to aces to compare them to plants even if no offense meant but it’s a Thing that’s happened in media, B) not true for most plant species anyway, C) seriously over ten times ya’ll please. Love, your tired author.)
> 
> Sorry for the long author’s note. See you next time! <3


	12. Gardening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley continues his managerial rampage through Hell. Several demons may or may not cry. Beelzebub and Dagon continue to question reality. Eric’s cult grows and Satan has regrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi :3 Short chapter, but at least it's something...?

_ “Have so much light that the plants grow towards you.” _

-Anonymous

Crowley is fairly certain that being internally filled with Hellfire counts.

* * *

It had taken longer than expected for Crowley and Beelzebub to continue their Hellish inspection, what with waterworks of both the demon and demonic kind, the lurking of a certain phone-equipped goth bunny, and the distant screams that faintly sounded rather like the king of Hell, though it was rather hard to hear over the echoing cackles of the MIA Dagon.

They didn’t want to know.

They really, _really_ didn’t want to know. 

And so, Beelzebub and Crowley had holed up in one of the few still-lit offices of Hell under the excuse of going over paperwork and inventory all while empty alcohol bottles gathered around them.[i]

Several hours of less and less productivity and more and more tequila later[ii], Dagon strolled into the room casual as can be, a half-eaten box of Krispy Kremes in hand and what could have been blood, ketchup, or strawberry jam splattered on their shoes.

Crowley didn’t ask.

“Is this what you two have been doing the whole time? Have you even gotten to the Sloth department yet?” Beelzebub slurped zir margarita pointedly, dead eyes staring at Dagon in a silent dare for them to continue. Naturally, they accepted. “What about the plants? Mentioned those yet?”

The mostly empty bottle of vodka on the desk suddenly deciding to catch fire was completely coincidental and in no way connected to Dagon’s words. At all. Crowley’s hair deciding to attempt to do the same was, however, much because of said words. 

“ _WhAt aBoUt ThE pLaNtS_?”

Beelzebub nearly choked on zir drink. Dagon actually had a brief flicker of shock flash across their expression before vanishing. That… was not a Crowley-esque voice. That was very much _not_ a tone associated with the infamous flash bastard.

What the fuck.

The two powerhouses of Hell shared a look. A bottle of spiced rum and a new box of donuts found miraculously themselves onto the table before them. Well, if donuts were on the line…

“The plants are dead. All of them. Turns out demons are pretty shit at gardening.”[iii]

The room was still, silent except for the sips of Beelzebub, contented munching of Dagon, and the drumming of Crowley’s suddenly very pointed nails against the rotting wood of the desktop.[iv]

Several minutes passed. Smoke continued to rise from Crowley’s flaming hair. Dagon was gazing mournfully into their empty donut box. Beelzebub continued to outdrink the entire European continent. 

Crowley’s chair creaked ominously, the shrill screech of it scraping across the floor as illogical as it was unsettling, considering it most definitely had wheels.[v] The demon stood and stalked out of the room, smoke rising with each step.

Crowley, silent? Unusual. Crowley, stalking instead of slinking? Impossible. 

Dagon was out the door in moments, Beelzebub with zir arm full of alcohol only half a step behind. From a much safer distance, an Eric crept after them, phone recording as he live-streamed to the 3000+ members of a certain cult.[vi]

* * *

There had once been a hall in Hell covered in plants of all kinds, from English Ivy to Birds of Paradise to Venus Flytraps and more. There had once been at least one succulent in every office and a flourishing snake plant in every meeting room.

Now, all that remained was a cluttered pile of brown leaves and ash before him. Crowley’s foot tapped against the floor, more and more smoke drifting up with each ominous _tap tap tap_.

Like all plants and the majority of living beings, these had required very certain elements to survive. Hell, with its sulfuric water, lack of soil, and complete absence of sunlight, did not qualify for the majority of these elements.

But, like all of a certain demon’s plants, current and former, they did have something else. Something that had been absent for a year only to make a fiery return.

The fear of Crowley.[vii]

“What is this supposed to be, _hmm_?” If Beelzebub and Dagon didn’t know better, they would say that the walls themselves shook at the serpent’s words. 

“I leave for a year - just _one. measly. year._ \- and you’ve already given up?” The desks shivered, drawers rattling. “Is this all you can do? Six _thousand_ years of refusing to die or meet my standards, and yet as soon as I’m no longer around, this is what you sink to?”

A little curl of green poked out from the pile of ash. A shimmer of violet peaked out from behind a waste bin. A flash of crimson crept across a deserted desk. 

“You are _my plants_ , capisce? And _my plants_ don’t die, even when I want them to, because they’re damn stubborn little buggers!” Sprouts began digging their way through the cement walls of the hall, little flakes of plaster falling away to reveal shades of green. 

“You annoying little shits have never fallen in line, and we’ll all be twice damned if you fall now. So get your act together, and **_GrOw BeTtEr_**!” The last two words emerged as a growling roar, echoing throughout all of Hell, sending several demons into cardiac arrest and causing a still-hiding Satan’s very bones to shiver. 

It was as though all of Hell had burst into bloom. Vines raced along the walls, sprouting flowers both long extinct and never-before-seen. Cacti suddenly burst forth, sending long limbs and dangerous needles every-which-way, much to the dismay of any and all demons in the vicinity. 

At the epicenter of all this was Crowley, flames of rage extinguished by the English Ivy crawling up his legs and the rather clingy crown of purple asters that had settled on his head.[viii] From head to toe, the poor demon was robed in flowers and wreaths of leaves.

The serpent merely sighed, shaking his head as he began poking the clingy vines away. “Yes, yes, I didn’t miss you either, geroff.” A venus flytrap nipped at his fingers playfully. Beelzebub and Dagon shared yet another glance. Well. This was only a mildly confusing and completely terrifying development.

Beelzebub took another shot.[ix]

Meanwhile, Eric’s cult was blooming almost as well as Hell itself.

* * *

[i] When you’re an amortal occult (or ethereal) being, alcoholism really isn’t much to worry about. What is happening several hallways away, on the other hand…

[ii] They had moved on from how many printers were broken to how to make mixed drinks, an activity that Crowley excelled at, and not because he had learned in order to impress a certain angel. Of course not.

[iii] The silent agreement to pointedly not think about what that might imply for Crowley was very much still in place.

[iv] So not very silent at all, really. 

[v] There may have been a good hour spent spinning and rolling on the chairs, drinking, and competing to see who could roll the furthest or do the best trick. Neither Beelzebub nor Crowley would ever confess.

[vi] \- And Eric was only 2000 of said members!

[vii] And, more importantly, his _belief_ in them.

[viii] \- author, who knows plant symbolism: :3

[ix] Partly because ze had decided to begin a drinking game where each time ze and Dagon shared a glance, ze would take another drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live! I’ve been doing a lot of art lately to help pay the bills and whatnot, so. Also, the Hazbin Hotel fandom is a flaming hot mess but I still like the lore and no, Tomarry has not and will likely never release me from its disastrous grasp.
> 
> I’m no longer hyper-focusing on Good Omens which is good for my grades, less good for content production rates. Updates will be slower but they will continue until the story is either completed or has reached a point where the rest will simply be random short stories as inspiration demands.


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